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Brigliam Young University 



Nephi Anderson 

Author of ''Added Upon/' *' Romance of A 
Missionary, ' ' etc. 

''The Keys of the Holy Priesthood unlock the Door of 
Knowledge and let you look into the Palace of Truth, '* 


Salt Lake City, Utah 

/ OtJier books by Nephi Anderson. 

"ADDED UPON"— A story of the past, the 

present, and the future stages of existence. 
^THE CASTLE BUILDER"— The scenes and 
J', incidents are from the "Land of the Mid- 
y night Sun." 

;;PINEY RIDGE COTTAGE"— A love story of 
v a Mormon country girL Illustrated. 
I the completed account of one who played an 
V important part in "Piney Ridge Cottage." 
of a Norwegian girl's trials and triumphs. 
"^'JOHN ST. JOHN"— The story of a young man 


who went through the soul-trying scenes of 

a Missouri and Illinois. 
. English life and missionary experiences. 
A Illustrated. 

""MARCUS KING MORMON"— A story of early 
days in Utah. 
about boys for boys and all interested in 
boys. Illustrated. 

Copyrighted 1921 by Nephi Anderson. 

THE tmRAMY ^ ■''■ 


DORIAN Trent was going to town to buy him- 
self a pair of shoes. He had some other 
errands to perform for himself and his 
mother, but the reason for his going to town was 
the imperative need of shoes. It was Friday af- 
ternoon. The coming Sunday he must appear 
decently shod, so his mother had told him, at the 
same time hinting at some other than the Sunday 
reason. He now had the money, three big, jin- 
riing silver dollars in his pocket. 

Dorian whistled cheerfully as he trudged along 
the road. It was a scant three miles to town, and 
he would rather walk that short distance than to 
be bothered with a horse. When he took Old Nig, 
he had to keep to the main-traveled road straight 
into town, then tie him to a post — and worry about 
him all the time ; but afoot and alone, he could 
nove along as easily as he pleased, linger on the 
:»anal bank or cut cross-lots through the fields to 
die river, cross it on the foot-bridge, then go on 
:o town f)v the lower meadows. 


The road was dusty that afternoon, and the sun 
was hot. It would he cooler under the willows 
by the river. At Cottonwood Corners, Dorian left 
the road and took the cut-off path. The river 
sparkled cool and clear under the overhanging 
willows. He saw m good-sized trout playing in 
the pool, but as he had no fishing tackle with him, 
the boy could only watch the fish in its graceful 
gliding in and out of sunshine and shadow. A 
robin overhead was making a noisy demonstration 
as if in alarm about a nest. Dorian sat on the 
bank to look and listen for a few moments, then 
he got up again. 

Crossing the river, he took the cool foot-path 
under the willows. He cut down one of the 
smoothest, sappiest branches with which to make 
whistles. Dorian was a great maker of whistles, 
which he freely gave away to the smaller boys 
and girls whom he met. Just as it is more fun 
to catch fish' than to eat them, so Dorian found 
more pleasure in giving away his whistles than to 
stuff them in his own pockets. However, that 
afternoon, he had to hurry on to town, so he 
caught no fish, and made only one whistle which 
he found no opportunity to give away. In the 
city, he attended to his mother's errands first. He 
purchased the few notions which the store in his 
home town of Greenstreet did not have, checking 
each item off on a slip of paper with a stub of 
a pencil. Then, there were his shoes. 

Should he get lace or button, black or tan? 


Were there any bargains in shoes that afternoon? 
He would look about to see. He found nothing 
in the way of footwear on Main street which ap- 
pealed to him. He lingered at the window of the 
book store, looking with envious eyes at the display 
of new books. He was well known by the book- 
seller, for he was a frequent visitor, and, once in 
a while, he made a purchase; however, to day he 
must not spend too much time '^browsing" among 
books. He would, however, just slip around to 
Twenty-fifth street and take a look at the second- 
hand store there. Not to buy shoes, of course, 
but sometimes there were other interesting things 
there, especially books. 

Ah, look here! Spread out on a table on the 
sidewalk in front of this second-hand store was 
a lot of books, a hundred or more — books of all 
kind — school books, history, fiction, all of them 
in good condition, some only a little shopworn, 
others just like new. Dorian Trent eagerly looked 
them over. Here were books he had read about, 
but had not read — and the prices! Dickens' ''David 
Copperfield'^ ''Tale of Two Cities'', "Dombey 
and Son", large well-printed books, only a little 
shopworn, for thirty-five cents; Thackery's "Vani- 
ty Pair", twenty-five cents; books by Mrs. Hum- 
phrey Ward and Margaret Deland; "Robinson 
Crusoe", a big book with fine pictures. Dorian 
had, of course, read "Robinson Crusoe" but he 
had always wanted to own a copy. Ah, what's 
this? Prescott's "Conquest of Peru", two vol- 


limes, new, fifty cents each! Dorian turned the 
leaves. A man stepped up and also began han- 
dling the books. Yes, here were bargains, surely. 
He stacked a number together as if he desired to 
secure them. Dorian becoming fearful, slipped 
the other volume of the Conquest under his arm 
and made as if to gather a number of other books 
under his protection. He must have some of these 
before they were all taken by others. The sales- 
man now came up to him and asked : 

^'Find something you want?" 

''0, yes, a lot of things I like" replied Dorian. 

*' They 're bargains." 

Dorian needed not to be told that. 

*' They 're going fast, too." 

**Yes, I suppse so." 

His heart fell as he said it, for he realized 
that he had no money to buy books. He had come 
to towm to buy shoes, which he badly needed. He 
glanced down at his old shoes. They were nearly 
falling to pieces, but they might last a little 
longer. If he bought the ** Conquest of Peru" 
he would still have two dollars left. Could he 
buy a pair of shoes for that amount? Very likely 
but not the kind his mother had told him to get, 
the kind that were not too heavy or ** stogy'' 
looking, but would be ''nice" for Sundays. H^ 
held tightly on to the two books, while Dickens 
and Thackery were still protectingly within his 
reach. What could he do? 

Down there in Peru there had been a wonder- 


ful people whom Pizarro, the bad, bold Spaniard 
had conquered and abused. Dorian knew about 
it all vaguely as a dim fairy tale; and here was 
the whole story, beautifully and minutely told. He 
must have these books. This bargain might never 
come again to him. But what would his mother 
say? She herself had added the last half dollar 
to his amount to make sure that he could get the 
nicer kind. 

''Well, sir, how many of these will you haveT' 
asked the salesman. 

''Ill — 111 take these two, anyway" — meaning 
Prescott's Conquest — *^and let me see' \ he looked 
hungrily over the titles — *'And this one * David 
Copperf ield \ " It was hard to select from so 
many tempting ones. Here was one he had missed : 
"Ben Hur" — , a fine new copy in blue and gold. 
He had read the Chariot Race, and if the whole 
story was as interesting as that, he must have it. 
He handed the volume to the salesman. Then his 
hand touched lovingly a number of other books, 
but he resisted the temptation, and said: "That's 
all — this time.'' 

The clerk wrapped the purchase in a newspaper 
and handed the package to Dorian who paid for 
them with his two silver dollars, receiving some 
small silver in change. Then, with his package 
under his arm, the boy walked on down the street. 

Well, what now? He was a little afraid of what 
he had done. How could he face his mother? 
How could he go home without shoes? Books 


might be useful for the head, but they would not 
clothe the feet. He jingled the coins in his 
pocket as he walked on down to the end of the 
business section of the city. He could not buy 
any kind of shoes to fit his big feet for a dollar 
and twenty cents. There was nothing more to do 
but to go home, and ^*face the music'', so he 
walked on in a sort of fearsome elation. At a 
corner he discovered a new candy store. Next to 
books, Dorian liked candy. He might as well buy 
some candy for the twenty cents. He went into 
the store and took his time looking at the tempting 
display, finally buying ten cents worth of choco- 
lates for himself and ten cents worth of pepper- 
mint lozenges for his mother. 

You see, Dorian Trent, though sixteen years old, 
was very much a child; he did many childish 
things, and yet in some ways, he was quite a man; 
the child in him and the man in him did not seem 
to merge into the boy, but were somewhat ^'sepa- 
rate and apart,'' as the people of Greenstreet 
woiild say. 

Dorian again took the less frequented road 
home. The sun was still high when he reached 
the river. He was not expected home for some 
time yet, so there was no need for hurry. He 
crossed the footbridge, noticing neither birds nor 
fish. Instead of following the main path, he 
struck off into a by-trail which led him to a tiny 
grass plat in the shade of a tree by the river. He 
sat down here, took off his hat, and pushed back 


from a freckled, sweating forehead a mop of 
wavy, rusty-colored hair. Then he untied his 
package of books and spread his treasures before 
him as a miser would his gold. He opened *' David 
Copperfield'', looked at the frontispiece which de- 
picted a fat man making a very emphatic speech 
against someone by the name of Heep. It must all 
be very interesting^ but it was altogether too big 
a book for him to begin to read now. ''Ben Hur'' 
looked solid and substantial; it would keep until 
next winter when he would have more time to 
read. Then he picked up the ''Conquest'', volume 
one. He backed up against the tree, settled him- 
self into a comfortable position, took from his 
paper bag a chocolate at which he nibbled con- 
tentedly, and then away he went with Prescott 
to the land of the Inca and the glories of a van- 
ished race! 

For an hour he read. Then, reluctantly, he 
closed his book, wrapped up his package again, 
and went on his homeward way. 

The new canal for which the farmers of Green- 
street had worked and waited so long had just 
been completed. The big ditch, now full of run- 
ning water, was a source of delight to the chil- 
dren as well as to the more practical adults. The 
boys and girls played on its banks, and waded and 
sported in the cool stream. Near the village of 
Greenstreet was a big headgate, from which the 
canal branched into two divisions. As Dorian 
walked along the canal bank that afternoon, he 


saw a group of children at play near the headgate. 
They were making a lot of robust noise, and 
Dorian stopped to watch them. He was always 
interested in the children, being more of a favorite 
among them than among the boys of his own 

'* There's Dorian/' shouted one of the boys. 
* ' Who are you going to marry ? * ' 

What in the world were the youngsters talking 
about, thought the young man, as the chattering 
children surrounded him. 

'' What's all this?" asked Dorian, ^'a party?'' 

''Yes; it's Carlia's birthday; w^e're just taking 
a walk by the canal to see the water; my, but 
it's nice!" 

''What, the party or the water?" 

"Why, the water." 

"Both" added another. 

"We've all told who we're going to marry," 
remarked a little rosy-faced miss, "all but Carlia, 
an' she won't tell." 

"Well, but perhaps Carlia don't know. You 
wouldn't have her tell a fib, would you?" 

"Oh, shucks, she knows as well as us." 

"She's just stubborn." 

She who was receiving these criticisms seemed 
to be somewhat older and larger than her 
companions. Just now, not deigning to notice 
the accusation of her friends, she was throwing 
sticks into the running w^ater and watching them 
go over the falls at the headgate and dance on 


the rapids below. Her white party dress was as 
yet spotless. She swung her straw hat by the 
string. Her brown-black hair was crowned by an 
unusually large bow of red ribbon. She was not 
the least discomposed by the teasing of the other 
children, neither by Dorian's presence. This was 
her party, and why should not she do and say 
what Ae pleased. 

Carlia now led the way along the canal bank 
until she came to where a pole spanned the stream. 
Slie stopped, looked at the somewhat insecure 
footbridge, then turning to her companions, said : 

' ' I can back you out. ' ' 

'^How? Doin' what?'' they asked. 

''Crossing the canal on the pole." 

''Shucks, you can't back me out/' declared one 
of the boys, at which he darted across the sway- 
ing pole, and with a jump, landed safely across. 
Another boy went at it gingerly, and 'v\dth the an- 
tics of a tight-rope walker, he managed to get 
to the other side. The other boys held back; 
none of the girls ventured. 

''All right, Carlia," shouted the boys on the 
olher bank. 

The girl stood looking at the frail pole. 

"Come on, it's easy," they encouraged. 

Carlia placed her foot on the pole as if testing 
it. The other girls protested. She would fall in 
and drown, 

"You dared us; now who's the coward," cried 
the boys. 


Caiiia took a step forward, balanced herelf, and 
took another. The children stood in spell-bound 
silence. The girl advanced slowly along the frail 
bridge until she reached the middle where the pole 
swayed dangerously. 

** Balance yourself/' suggested the second boy, 

''Run,'' said the first. 

But Carlia could neither balance nor run. She 
stood for a moment on the oscillating span, then 
threw up her hands, and with a scream she 
plunged into the waters of the canal. 

No thought of danger had entered Dorian's mind 
as he stood watching the capers of the children. 
If any of them fell in, he thought, they would 
only get a good wetting. But as Carlie fell, he 
sprang forward. The water at this point was 
quite deep and running swiftly. He saw that 
Oarlia fell on her side and went completely under. 
The children screamed. Dorian, startled out of 
his apathy, suddenly ran to the canal and jumped 
in. It was done so impulsively that he still held 
on to his package of books. With one hand he 
lifted the girl out of the water, but in her strug- 
gles, she knocked the bundle from his hand, and 
the precious books splashed into the canal and 
floated dow^n the stream. Dorian made an effort 
to rescue them, but Carlia clung so to his arms that 
he could do nothing but stand and see the package 
glide over the falls at the headgate and then go 
dancing over the rapids, even as Carlia 's sticks 
had done. For a moment the young man's thoughts 


were with his books, and it seemed that he stood 
there in the canal for quite a while in a sort of 
daze, with the w^ater rushing by his legs. Then 
mechanically he carried the girl' to the bank and 
would have set her down again with her com- 
/panions, but she clung to him so closely and with 
such terror in her eyes that he lifted her into his 
arms and talked reassuringly to her: 

''There, now%" he said, ''you're only a bit wet. 
Don't cry/' 

"Take me home. I — I want to go home," 
sobbed the girl. 

"Sure," said Dorian. "Come on everybody." 

He led the way, and the rest of the children 

"I suppose the party's about over, anyway," 
suggested he. 

"I — I guess so." 

They walked on in silence for a time; then 
Oarlia said : 

"I guess Fm heavy." 

"Not at all", lied the young man bravely, for 
she Avas heavier than he had supposed; but she 
made no offer to walk. By the time they reached 
the gate, Carlia was herself again, and in- 
clined to look upon her wetting and escape as 
quite an adventure. 

"There," said Dorian as he seated the girl on 
the broad top of the gate post; "I'll leave you 
there to dry. It won't take long." 

He looked at his own wet clothes, and tl^^n at 


his ragged, mud-laden shoes. He might as well 
carry the girl up the path to her home, but then, 
that was not necessary. The day was warm, 
there was no danger of colds, and she could run 
up the path in a few minutes. 

*^Well, 111 go now. Goodby/' he said. 

''Wait a minute — Say, I'm glad you saved me, 
but I'm sorry you lost your package. What was 
^n it?'' 

''Only books." 

"I'll get you some more, when I get the 
money, yes I will. Come here and lift me down 
before you go." 

He obeyed. She put a wet arm about his neck 
and cuddled her dark, damp curls against his 
russet mop. He lifted her lightly down, and then 
he slipped a chocolate secretly into her hand. 

"Oh girls," exclaimed one of the party, "I 
know now." 

"Know what?" asked Carlia. 

"I know who you are going to marry." 


"You're going to marry Dorian." 


THJ] disposition to lie or evade never remained 
long with Dorian Trent ; but that evening as 
he turned into the lane which led up to the 
house, he was sorely tempted. Once or twice only, 
as nearly as he could remember, had he told an un- 
truth to his mother with results which he would 
never forget. He must tell her the truth now. 

But he. would put off the ordeal as long as 
possible. /There could be no harm in that. Every- 
thing was quiet about the house, as his mother 
was away. He hurriedly divested himself of his 
best clothes and put on his overalls. He took the 
milk pail and hung it on the fence until he 
brought the cows from the pasture. After milk- 
ing, he did his other chores. There were no signs 
of mother. The dusk turned to darkness, yet no 
light appeared in the house. Dorian went in and 
lighted the lamp and proceeded to get supper. 

The mother came presently, carrying a bag of 
wool. ''A big herd of sheep went by this after- 
noon,'' she explained, ''and they left a lot of 
fine wool on the barbed-wire fences. See, I have 


gathered enough for a pair of stockings/' She 
seated herself. 

''You're tired," said Dorian. 

"Well, you sit and rest; I'll soon have the 
supper on the table." This was no difficult task, 
as the evening meal was usually a very simple 
one, and Dorian had frequently prepared it. This 
evening as the mother sat there quietly she 
looked at her son with admiring eyes. What a 
big boy he was getting to be! He had always 
been big, it seemed to her. He had been a big 
baby and a big little boy, and now he was a big 
young man. He had a big head and big feet, 
big hands. His nose and mouth were big, and 
big freckles dotted his face— yes, and a big heart, 
as his mother very well knew. Along with his 
bigness of limb and body there was a certain 
awkwardness. He never could run as fast as the 
other boys, and he always fumbled the ball in 
their games though he could beat them swimming. 
So far in his youthful career he had not learned 
to dance. The one time he had tried, his girl 
partner had made fun of his awkwardness, so 
that ended his dancing. But Dorian was not 
clumsy about his mother's home and table. He 
handled the dishes as daintily as a girl, and the 
table was set and the food served in a very 
proper manner. 

"Did you get your shoes, Dorian?" 


Dorian burned his fingers on a dish which was 
not at all hot. 

''Mother, sit up; supper is ready.'' 

They both drew up their chairs. Dorian asked 
the blessing, then became unusually solicitous in 
helping his mother, continually talking as he did 

''That little Duke girl was nearly drowned in 
the canal, this afternoon,'' he told her, going on 
with the details. ''She's a plucky little thing. 
Ten minutes after I had her out of the canal, she 
was as lively as ever." 

The mother liked to hear him talk, so she did 
not interrupt him. After they had eaten, he 
forced her to take her rocking-chair while he 
cleared the table and washed the few dishes. She 
asked no more questions about shoes, but leaned 
back in her chair with half-closed eyes. Dorian 
thought to give her the mint lozenges, but fear- 
ing that it might lead to more questions, he did 

Mrs. Trent was not old in years, but hard work 
had bent her back and roughened her hands. Her 
face was pleasant to look upon, even if there were 
some wrinkles now, and the hair was white at the 
temples. She closed her eyes as if she were go- 
ing to sleep. 

"Now, mother, you're going to bed", said 
Dorian. "You have tired yourself out with this 
wool picking. I thought I told you before that I 
would gather what wool there was." 


''But you weren't here, and I could not stand 
to see the wind blowing it away. See, what a 
fine lot I got.'^ She opened her bundle and dis- 
played her fleece. 

''Well, put it away. You can't card and spin 
and knit it tonight/' 

"It will have to be washed first, you foolish 

Dorian got his mother to bed without further 
reference to shoes. He went to his own room 
with a conscience not altogether easy. He lighted 
his lamp, which was a good one, for he did a lot 
of reading by it. The electric wires had not yet 
reached Greenstreet. Dorian stood looking about 
his room. It was not a very large one, and some- 
Avhat sparsely furnished. The bed seemed self- 
ishly to take up most of the space. Against one 
wall was set some home-made shelving contain- 
ing books. He had quite a library. Thei'e were 
books of various kinds, gathered with no par- 
ticular plan or purpose, but as means and oppor- 
tunity afforded. In one corner stood a scroll 
saw, now not very often used. Pictures of a 
full-rigged sailing vessel and a big modern steamer 
hung on the wall above his books. On another 
wall were three small prints, landscapes where 
there were great distances with much light and 
warmth. Over his bed hung an artist's conception 
of "Lorna Doone," a beautiful face, framed in a 
mass of auburn hair, with smiling lips, and a 
dreamy look in her eyes. 


''That's my girl/' Dorian sometimes said, point- 
ing to this picture. ''No one can take her from 
me; we never quarrel; and she never scolds or 
frowns. ' ' 

On another wall hung a portrait of his father, 
who had been dead nine years. His father had 
been a teacher with a longing to be a farmer. 
Eventually, this longing had been realized in the 
purchase of the tw^enty acres in Greenstreet, at that 
time a village with not one street which could be 
called green, and Avithout a sure water supply for 
irrigation, at least on the land which would grow 
corn and potatoes and wheat. To be sure, there 
was water enough of its kind down on the lower 
slopes, besides saleratus and salt grass and cat- 
tails and the tang of marshlands in the air. 
Schoolmaster Trent's operations in farming had 
not been very successful, and when he died, the 
result of his failure was a part of the legacy 
which descended to his wife and son. 

Dorian took a book from the shelf as if to read; 
but visions intruded of some beautiful volumes, 
now somewhere down the canal, a mass of water- 
soaked paper. He could not read. He finished 
his last chocolate, said his prayers, arid went to 

Saturday was always a busy day with Dorian 
and his mother; but that morning Mrs. Trent was 
up earlier than usual. The white muslin curtains 
were already in the wash when Dorian looked at 
his mother in the summer kitchen. 


^*What, washing tadayf he asked in surprise. 
Monday was washday. 

''The curtains were black; they must be clean 
for tomorrow." 

''You can see dirt where I can't see it." 

"IVe been looking for it longer, my boy. And, 
say, fix up the line you broke the other day." 

"Sure, mother." 

The morning was clear and cool. He did his 
chores, then went out to his ten-acre field of wheat 
and lucerne. The grain was heading beautifully; 
and there were prospects of three cuttings of hay; 
the potatoes were doing fine, also the corn and 
the squash and the melons. The young farmer's 
heart was made glad to see the coming harvest, 
all the work of his own hands. 

For this was the first real crop they had raised. 
For years they had struggled and pinched. Some- 
times Dorian was for giving up and moving to 
the city; but the mother saw brighter prospects 
when the new canal should be finished. And then 
her boy would be better off working for himself 
on the farm than drudging for others in the town; 
besides, she had a desire to remain on the spot 
made dear by her husband's work; and so they 
struggled along, making their payments on the 
land and later on the canal stock. The summit 
of their difficulties seemed now to have passed, 
and better times were ahead. Dorian looked dowa 
at his ragged shoes and laughed to himself good- 
naturedly. Shucks, in a few months he would 


have plenty of money to buy shoes, perhaps also 
a Sunday suit for himself, and everything his 
mother needed. And if there should happen to 
be more book bargains, he might venture in that 
direction again. 

Breakfast passed without the mention of shoes. 
What was his mother thinking about? She seemed 
uncommonly busy with cleaning an uncommonly 
clean house. When Dorian came home from irri- 
gating at noon, he kicked off his muddy shoes 
by the shanty door, so as not to soil her cleanly 
scrubbed floor or to stain the neat home-made 
rug. There seemed to be even more than the 
extra cooking in preparation for Sunday. 

The mother looked at Dorian coming so noise- 
lessly in his stocking feet. 

'^You didn't show me your new shoes last 
night," she said. 

'*Say, mother, what's all this extra cleaning 
and cooking about?'' 

'^We're going to have company tomorrow/' 

^^ Company? Who?" 

*a'll tell you about it at the table." 

''Do you remember," began the mother when 
they were seated," a lady and her little girl who 
visited us some two years ago?" 

Yes, he had some recollection of them. He re- 
membered the girl, specially, spindle-legged, with 
round eyes, pale cheeks, and an unaommonly long 
braid of yellow hair hanging down her back. 

''Well, they're coming to see us tomorrow. 


Mrs. Brown is an old-time friend of mine, and 
Mildred is an only ehild. The gii4 is not strong, 
and so I invited them to come here and get 
some good country air." 

''To stay with us, motlierT' asked the boy in 

''Just to visit. It's terribly hot in the city. 
We have plenty of fresh eggs and good milk, 
which, I am sure is just what the child needs. 
Mrs. Brown cannot stay more than the day, so 
she says, but I am going to ask that Mildred visits 
with us for a week anyway. I think I can bring 
some color into her cheeks.'' 

"Oh, gee, mother!'^ he remonstrated. 

"Now, Dorian, be reasonable. She's such a 
simple, quiet girl. She will not be in the way 
in the least. I want you to treat her nicely." 

Dorian had finished his dinner and was gazing 
out of the window. There was an odd look on 
his face. The idea of a girl living right here 
Avith them in the same house startled and troubled 
him. His mother had called her a little girl, but 
he remembered her as being only a year or two 
younger than he. Gee! 

"That's why I wanted you to get a pair of 
decent shoes for tomorrow," said the mother, "and 
I told you to get a nice pair. I have brushed and 
pressed your clothes, but you must get a new suit 
as soon as possible. Where are your shoes? I 
couldn't find them." 

"I — didn't get any shoes, mother." , 


^^Didn^t get any? Why notr^ 

'*Well, you see — I didn't know about these 
visitors coming, mother, and so I — bought some 
books for most of my money, and so; but mother, 
don't get mad — I — " 

*^ Books? What books? Where are they?" 

And then Dorian told her plainly the whole 
miserable stoiy. At first the mother was angry, 
but when she saw the troubled face of her boy, 
she relented, not wishing to add to his misery. 
She even smiled at the calamitous ending of 
those books. 

' ' My boy, I see that you have been sorely 
tempted, and I am sorry that you lost your books. 
The wetting that Carlia gave you did no harm . . . 
but you must have some shoes by tomorrow. 

The mother went to the bureau drawer, oi^ened 
the lid of a little box, drew from the box a purse, 
and took froru the purse two silver dollars. She 
handed them to Dorian. 

'*6o to town again this afternoon and get some 

''But, mother, I hate to take your money. I 
think I can black my old ones so that they will 
not look so bad." 

''Blacking will not fill the holes. Now, you 
do as I say. Jump on Nig and go right away." 

Dorian put the money in his pocket, then went 
out to the yard and slipped a bridle on his horse, 
mounted, and was back to the house. 


''New, Dorian, remember what I say. Get you 
a nice pair, a nice Sunday pair.'* 

''All right, mother, I will/' 

He rode off at a gallop. He lingered not by 
creeks or byways, but went directly to the best 
shoe store in the city, where he made his purchase. 
He stopped neither at book store or candy shops. 
His horse was sweating when he rode in at the 
home yard. His mother hearing him, came out. 

"You made quick time,'' she said. 

"Yes; just to buy a pair of shoes doesn't take 

"You got the right kind?" 

"Sure. Here, look at 'em." He handed her 
the package. 

"I can't look at them now. Say, Dorian — "she 
came out nearer to him — "They are here." 

'^Who, mother?" 

"Mrs. Brown and her daughter. They got a 
chance to ride out this afternoon, so they did not 
wait until tomorrow. Lucky I cleaned up this 
morning. Mildred is not a bit well, and she is 
lying down now. Don't make any naore noise 
than you can help." 

"Gee — but, mother, gosh!" He was very much 

"They are dear, good people. They know we 
are simple farmers. Just you wash yourself and 
take off those dirty overalls before you come in. 
And then you just behave yourself. We're going 
to have something nice for supper. Now, don't 


be too long with your hoeing or with your chores, 
for supper A\dll be early this evening/' 

Dorian hoed only ten rows that afternoon for 
the reason that he sat down to rest and to think 
at the end of each row. Then he dallied so with 
his chores that his mother had to call him twice. 
At last he could find no more excuses between 
him and the strange company. He went in with 
much fear and some invisible trembling. 


ABOUT six o'clock in the afternoon, Mildred 
Brown went down through the fields to 
the lower pasture. She wore a gingham 
apron which covered her from neck to high- 
topped boots. She carried in one hand an easel 
and stpol and in the other hand a box of colors. 
Mildred came each day to a particular spot in this 
lower pasture and set up her easel and stool in 
the shade of a black willow bush to paint a par- 
ticular scene. She did her work as nearly as 
possible at the same time each afternoon to get 
the same effect of light and shade and the same 
stretch of reflected sunlight on the open water 
spaces in the marshland. 

And the scene before her was worthy of a 
master hand, which, of course, Mildred Brown was 
not as yet. Prom her position in the shade of the 
willow, she looked out over the flat marshlands 
toward the west. Nearby, at the edge of the 
firmer pasture lands, the rushes grew luxuriously, 
now crowned with large, glossy-brown ''cat-tails.'' 
The flats to the left were spotted by beds of white 


and black saleratus and bunches of course salt 
grass. Openings of sluggish water lay hot in the 
sun, winding in and out among reeds, and at this 
hour every clear afternoon, shining with the un- 
dimmed reflection of the burning sun. The air 
was laden with salty odors of the marshes. A 
light afternoon haze hung over the distance. 
Pi'ogs were lazily croaking, and the killdeer'3 
shrill cry came plaintively to the ear. A number 
af cows stood knee-deep in mud and water, round 
as barrels, and breathing hard, with tails unceas- 
ingly switching away the flies. 

Dorian was in the field turning the water on 
his lucerne patch when he saw Mildred coming 
as usual down the path. He had not expected her 
that afternoon as he thought the picture which 
she had been working on was finished; but after 
adjusting the flow of water, he joined her, re- 
lieving her of stool and easel. They then walked 
on together, the big farm boy in overalls and the 
tall graceful girl in the enveloping gingham. 

Mildred's visit had now extended to ten days, 
by which time Dorian had about gotten over his 
timidity in her presence. In fact, that had not 
been difficult. The girl was not a bit ''stuck up,'' 
and she entered easily and naturally into the 
home life on the farm. She had changed con- 
siderably since Dorian had last seen her, some 
two yeai*s ago. Her face was still pale, although 
it seemed that a little pink was now creeping into 
her cheeks; her eyes were still big and round and 


blue; her hair was now done up in thick shining 
braids. She talked freely to Dorian and his 
mother, and at last Dorian had to some extent 
been able to find his tongue in the presence of a 
girl nearly his own age. 

The two stopped in the shade of the willow. 
He set up the easel and opened the stool, while 
she got out her colors and brushes. 

''Thank you/' she said to him. ''Did you get 
through with your work in the field?" 

"I was just turning the water on the lucerne. 
I got through shocking the wheat some time 

"Is there a good crop? I don't know much 
about such things, but I want to learn." She 
smiled up into his ruddy face. 

"The wheat is fine. The heads are well de- 
veloped. I wouldn't be surprised if it went fifty 
bushels to the acre." 

"Fifty bushels?" She began to squeeze the 
tubes of colors on to the palette. 

Dorian explained; and as he talked, she seated 
herself, placed the canvas on the easel, and be- 
gan mixing the colors. 

"I thought you finished that picture yester- 
day," he said. 

"I was not satisfied with it, and so I thought 
I would put in another hour on it. The setting 
sun promises to be unusually fine today, and I 
want to put a little more of its beauty into my 
picture, if I can." 



The young man seated himself on the grass well 
toward the rear where he could see her at work. 
He thought it wonderful to be able thus to make 
a beautiful picture out of such a commonplace 
thing as a saleratus swamp. But then, he was be- 
ginning to think that this girl was capable of 
endless wonders. He had met no other girl just 
like her, so young and so beautiful, and yet so 
talented and so well-informed; so rich, and yet so 
simple in manner of her life; so high born and 
bred, and yet so companionable with those of 
humbler station. 

The painter squeezed a daub of brilliant red 
on to her palette. She gazed for a moment at 
the western sky, then turning to Dorian, she 
asked : 

''Do you think I dare put a little more red in 
my picture?'' 

''Dare?" he repeated. 

The young man followed the pointing finger 
of the girl into the flaming depths of the sky, 
then came and leaned carefully over the paint- 

"Tell me which is redder, the real or the pic- 
ture?'' she asked. 

Dorian looked critically back and forth. "The 
sky is redder," be decided. 

"And yet if I make my picture as red as the 
sky naturally is, many people would say that 
it is too red to be true. I'll risk it anyway." 
Then she carefully laid on a little more color. 


''Nature itself, our teacher told us, is always more 
intense than any representation of nature." 

She worked on in silence for a few moments, 
then without looking from her canvas, she asked: 
''Do you like being a farmer?'' 

"Oh, I guess so," he replied somewhat indef- 
initely. "IVe lived on a farm all my life, and 
I don't know anything else. I used to think I 
would like to get away, but mother always wanted 
to stay. There's been a lot of hard work for both 
of us, but now things are coming more our way, 
and I like it better. Anyway, I couldn't live in 
the city now." 


"Well, I don't seem able to breathe in the 
city, with its smoke and its noise and its crowding 
together of houses and people." 

"You ought to go to Chicago or New York or 
Boston," she replied. "Then you would see some 
crowds and hear some noises." 

"Have you been there?" 

"I studied drawing and painting in Boston. 
Next to farming, what would you like to do?" 

He thought for a moment — "When I was a 
little fellow—" 

"Which you are not," she interrupted as .she 
changed brushes. 

"I thought that if I ever could attain to the 
position of standing behind a counter in a store 
where I could take a piece of candy whenever I 
wanted it, I should have attained to the heights 
of happiness. But, now, of course — " 


^^Well, and now?" 

''I believe I'd like to be a school teacher." 

'^Why a teacher?" 

'* Because I'd then have the chance to read 
a lot of books." 

'*You like to read, don't you? and you like 
candy, and you like pictures." 

''Especially, when someone else paints them." 

Mildred arose, stepped back to get the distance 
for examination. *'I don't think I had better use 
more color," she commented, ''but those cat-tails 
in the corner need touching up a bit." 

"I suppose you have been to school a lotV ' 
he asked. 

"No; just completed the high school; then, not 
being very strong, mother thought it best not to 
send me to the University; but she lets me dabble 
a little in painting and in music." 

Dorian could not keep his eyes off this girl 
who had already completed the high school course 
which he had not yet begun; besides, she had 
learned a lot of other things which would be 
beyond him to ever reach. Even though he 
were an ignoramus, he could bask in the light of 
her greater learning. She did not resent that. 

"What do you study in High School?" he 

"Oh, a lot of things — ^don't you know?" She 
again looked up at him. 

"Not exactly." 

"We studied algebra and mathematics and Eng- 


lish and English literature, and French, and a 
lot of other things.'' 

^•What's algebra like?" 

''Oh dear, do you want me to draw it?" 

''Can you draw it?" 

''About as well as I can tell it in words. Alge- 
bra is higher mathematics; yes, that's it." *-^^ 

'^And what's the difference between English 
and English literature?" 

"English is grammar and how sentences are 
or should be made. English literature is made 
up mostly of the reading of the great authors, 
such as Milton and Shakespeare." 

"Gee!" exclaimed Dorian, "that would be 
great fun." 

"Fun? just you try it. Nobody reads these 
writers now only in school, where they have to. 
But say, Dorian" — she arose to inspect her work 
again. "Have I too much purple in that bunch 
of salt-grass on the left? What do you think?" 

"I don't see any purple at all in the real 
grass," he said. 

"There is purple there, however; but of course, 
you, not being an artist, cannot see it." She 
laughed a little for fear he might think her pro- 
nouncement harsh. 

"What— what is an artist?" 

"An artist is one who has learned to see more 
than other people can in the common things about 

The definition was not quite clear to him. He 

had proved that he could see farther and clearer 
than she could when lookinjf at trees or chip- 
munks. He looked critically again at the picture. 

''I mean, of course,'' she added, as she noted 
his puzzled look/' that an artist is one who sees 
in nature the beauty in form, in light and shade, 
and in color/' 

*'You havn't put that tree in the right place,'' 
he objected! ''and you have left out that house 

''This is not a photograph," she answered. "I 
put in my picture only that which I want there. 
The tree isn't in the right place, so I moved it. 
The house has no business in the picture because 
I want it to represent a scene of wild, open 
lonesomeness. I want to make the people who 
look at it feel so lonesome that they want to cry!" 

She was an odd girl! 

''Oh, don't you understand. I want them only 
to feel like it. When you saw that charcoal 
drawing I made the other day, you laughed." 

''Well, it was funny." 

"That's just it. An artist wants to be able to 
make people feel like laughing or crying, for then 
he knows he has reached their soul." 

"I've got to look after the water for a few 
minutes, then I'll come back and help you carry 
your things," he said. "You're about through, 
aren't yout" 

"Thank you; I'll be ready now in a few minmtes. 


Go see to your water. Til wait for you. How 
beautiful the west is now!" 

They stood silently for a few moments side by 
side, looking at the glory of the setting sun 
through banks of clouds and then down behind 
the purple mountain. Then Dorian, with shovel 
on shoulder, hastened to his irrigating. The 
blossoming field of lucerne was usually a common 
enough sight, but now it was a stretch of sweet- 
scented waves of green and purple. 

Mildred looked at the farmer boy until he 
disappeared behind the willow fence, then she 
began to pack up her things. Presently, she heard 
some low bellowing, and, looking up, she saw a 
number of cows, with tails erect, galloping across 
the fields. They had broken the fence, and were 
now having a gay frolic on forbidden grounds. 
Mildred saw that they were making directly for 
the corner of the pasture where she was. She 
was afraid of cows, even when they were within 
the quiet enclosure of the yard, and here was a 
wild lot apparently coming upon her to destroy 
her. She crouched ^error stricken, as if to take 
shelter behind the frail bulwark of her easel. 

Then she saw a horse leap through the gap in 
the fence and come galloping after the cows. On 
the horse was a girl, not a large girl, but she 
was riding fearlessly, bare-back, and urging the 
horse to greater strides. Her black hair was 
trailing in the wind as she waved a willow switch 
and shouted lustily at the cows. She managed 


to head the cows off before they had reached 
Mildred, rounding them up sharply and driving 
them back through the breach into the road which 
they followed quietly homeward. The rider tlien 
galloped back to the frightened girl. 

''Did the cows scare you?'' she asked. 

''Yes/' panted Mildred. "I'm so frightened 
of cows, and these were so wild." 

"They were just playing. They wouldn't hurt 
you; but they did look fierce." 

"Whose cows were they?" 

"They're ours. I have to get them up every 
day. Sometimes when the flies are bad they get 
a little mad, but I'm not afraid of them. They 
know me, you bet. I can milk the kickiest one 
of the lot." 

"Do you milk the cows?" 

"Sure— but what is that?" The rider had 
caught sight of the picture. "Did you make 

"Yes; I painted it." 

"My!" She dismounted, and with arm through 
bridle, she and the horse came up for a closer 
view of the picture. The girl looked at it mutely 
for a moment. "It's pretty" she said; "I wish 
I could make a picture like that." 

Mildred smiled at her. She was such a round, 
rosy girl, so full of health and life and color. 
Not such a little girl either, now a nearer view 
was obtained. She was only a year or two 
younger than Mildred herself. 

36 DORIAl^ 

'*I wish I could do what you can," said the 
painter of pictures. 

''I — what? I can't do anything like that." 

''No; but you can ride a horse, and stop 
runaway cows. You can do a lot of things that 
I cannot do because you are stronger than I am. 
I wish I had some of that rosy red in your 

''You can have some of mine," laughed the 
other, "for I have more than enough; but you 
wouldn't like the freckles." 

"I wouldn't mind them, I'm sure; but let me 
thank you for what you did, and let's get ac- 
quainted." Mildred held out her hand, which the 
other took somewhat shyly. "Don't you have to go 
home with your cows?" 

"Yes, I guess so." 

"Then we'll go back together." She gathered 
her material and they walked on up the path, 
Mildred ahead, for she was timid of the horse 
which the other led by the bridle rein. At the 
bars in the corner of the upper pasture the horse 
was turned loose into his own feeding ground, 
and the girls went on together. 

"You live near here, don't you?" inquired 
"Yes, just over there." 

"Oh, are you Garlia Duke?" 

"Yes; how did you know?" 

"Dorian has told me about you." 


''Has he? We're neighbors; an' you're the girl 
that's visiting with the Trent's?" 


"Well, I'm glad to meet you. Dorian has told 
me about you, too." 

Thus these two, meeting for the first time, 
went on chatting together; and thus Dorian saw 
them. He had missed Mildred at the lower past- 
ure, and so, with shovel again on shoulder, he 
had followed up the homeward path. The girls 
were some distance ahead, so he did not try to 
overtake them. In fact, he slackened his pace a 
little, so as not to get too close to them to disturb 
them; but he saw them plainly walk close to- 
gether up the road in the twilight of the summer 
evening, the tall, light-haired Mildred, and the 
shorter, dark-haired Carlia; and the child in 
Dorian seemed to vanish, and the man in him 
asserted himself in thought and feelings which 
it would have been hard for him to describe in 



INDIAN summer lay drowsily over the land. 
It had come late that season, but its rare 
beauty compensated for its tardiness. Its 
golden mellowness permeating the hazy air, had 
also, it seems, crept into the heart of Dorian Trent. 
The light coating of frost which each morning lay 
on the grass, had by noon vanished, and now the 
earth was warm and dry. 

Dorian was plowing, and he was in no great 
haste with his work. He did not urge his horses, 
for they also seemed imbued with the languidness 
of the season. He let them rest frequently, espe- 
cially at the end of the furrow where there was 
a grassy bank on which the plovnnan could lie 
prone on his back and look into the dreamy dis- 
tances of the hills or up into the veiling clouds. 
Dorian could afford to take it a little easy that 
afternoon, so he thought. The summer's work 
was practically over: the wheat had been thrash- 
ed; the hay was in the stacks; the potatoes were 
in the pit; the corn stood in Indian wigwam 


bunches in the yard; the fruit and vegetables, 
mostly of the mother's raising, had been sufficient 
for their simple needs. They were well provided 
for the winter; and so Dorian was happy and 
contented as everyone in like condition should be 
on such an Indian summer afternoon. 

Mildred Brown 's visit to the farm had ended some 
weeks ago; but only yesterday his mother had re- 
ceived a note from Mrs. Brown, asking if her 
daughter might not come again. Her former 
visit had done her so much good, and now the 
beautiful weather was calling her out into the 
country. It was a shame, Mildred had said, that 
Indian summer should ''waste its sweetness on the 
desert air of the city.'' 

''What do you sayf' Mrs. Trent had asked 

''Why — why — of course, mother, if she doesn't 
make too much work for you." 

And so Mildred had received the invitation that 
she was very welcome to come to Greenstreet and 
stay as long as she desired. Very likely, she would 
be with them in a day or two, thought Dorian. She 
would draw and paint, and then in the soft 
evening dusk she would play some of those ex- 
quisite melodies on her violin. Mildred did not 
like people to speak of her beloved instrument as 
a fiddle, and he remembered how she had chas- 
tised him on one occasion for so doing. Yes, she 
would again enter into their daily life. Her lady- 
like ways, her sweet smile, her golden beauty 


Avould again glorify their humble home. Why, 
if she came often enough and remained long 
enough, she might yet learn how to milk a cow, 
as she had threatened to do. At the thought, 
the boy on the grass by the nodding hprses, 
laughed up into the sky. Dorian was happy; but 
whether he preferred the somewhat nervous happi- 
ness of Mildred's presence or the quiet longing 
happiness of her absence, he could not tell. 

The plain truth of the matter was, that Dorian 
had fallen deeply in love with Mildred. This 
statement may be scoffed at by some people whose 
eyes have been dimmed by age so that they can- 
not see back into that time of youth when they 
also were ''trailing clouds of glory'' from their 
heavenly home. There is nothing more whole- 
somely sweet than this first boy and girl affec- 
tion. It is clean and pure and undefiled by the 
many worldly elements which often enter into 
the more mature lovemaking. 

Perhaps Mildred Brown's entrance into Dorian's 
life did not differ from like incidents in many 
lives, but to him it was something holy. Dorian 
at this time never admitted to himself that he was 
in love with the girl. He sensed very well that 
she was far above him in every way. The thought 
that she might ever become his wife never ob- 
tained foothold in him more than for a fleeting 
moment: that was impossible, then why think of 
it. But there could be no harm in loving her as 
he loved his mother, or as he loved the flowers. 


th# clear-flowing water, the warm sun and the 
blue sky. He could at least cast adoring eyes up 
to her as he did to the stars at night. He could 
also strive to rise to her level, if that were possi- 
ble. He was going to the High school the coming 
winter, then perhaps to the University. He could 
get to know as much of school learning as she, 
anyway. He never would become a painter of 
pictures or a musician, but surely there were other 
things which he could learn which would be 
worth while. 

There came to Dorian that afternoon as he still 
lay on the grass, his one-time effort to ask a girl 
to a dance. He recalled what care he had taken 
in washing and combing and dressing, how he 
had finally cut cross-lots to the girl's home for 
fear of being seen, for surely he had thought, 
everybody must know what he was up to! — how 
he had lingered about the back door, and had at 
last, when the door opened, scudded back home as 
fast as his legs could carry him! And now, the 
finest girl he had ever seen was chumming with 
him, and he was not afraid, that is, not very much 

When Mildred had packed up to go home on the 
occasion of her former visit she had invited Mrs. 
Trent to take her pick of her drawings for her 

'*A11 but this,'' Mildred had said. ^^This which 
I call 'Sunset in the Marshland' I am going t© 
give to Dorian." 


The mother had looked over the pile of sketches. 
There was a panel in crayon which the artist said 
was the big cottonwood down by the Corners. 
Mrs. Trent remarked that she never would have 
known it, but then, she added apologetically, she 
never had an eye for art. There was a winter 
scene where the houses were so sunk into the 
earth that only the roofs were visible. (Mrs. 
Trent had oftened wondered why the big slanting 
roofs were the only artistic thing about a house). 
Another picture showed a high, camel-backed 
bridge, impossible to cross by anything more real 
than the artist's fancy. Mrs. Trent had chosen 
the bridge because of its pretty colors. 

''Where shall we hang Dorian's picture?" 
Mildred had asked. 

They had gone into his room. Mildred had 
looked about. 

''The only good light is on that wall.'' She 
had pointed to the space occupied by Dorian *s 
"best girl.'' 

And so Lorna Doone had come down and 
Mildred's study of the marshlands glowed with 
its warmer colors in its place. 

The plowboy arose from the grass. ''Get up 
there," he said to his horses. "We must be 
going, or there'll be very little plowing today." 

Carlia Duke was the first person to greet 
Mildred as she alighted at the Trent gate. Carlia 
knew of her coming and was waiting. Mildred 


put her arm about her friend and kissed her, 
somewhat to the younger girl's confused pleasure?. 
The two girls went up the path to the house where 
Mrs. Trent met them. 

'* Where's your baggage?'' asked the mother of 
the arrival, seeing she carried only a small bag 
and her violin case. 

*'This is all. I'm not going to paint this time — 
just going to rest, mother said, so I do not need 
a lot of baggage." 

*'Well, come in Honey; and you too, Carlia. 
Dinner is about ready, an' you'll stay." 

By a little urging Carlia remained, and pretty 
soon, Dorian came stamping in to be surprised. 

''Yes; we're all here," announced Carlia, as 
she tossed her black curls and laughed at hi.s 

''I see you are," he replied ,as he shook hands 
with Mildred. After which ceremony, it did not 
just look right to slight the other girl, so he 
shook hands with her also, much to her amuse- 

''How do you do, Mr. Trent" she said. 

"Carlia is such a tease," explained the mother, 

"For which I like her," added Mildred. 

"We all do. Even Dorian here, who is usually 
afraid of girls, makes quite a chum of her." 

"Well, we're neighbors," justified the girl. 

After dinner Carlia took Mildred home with 
her. It was not far, just around the low ridge 
which hid the house from view. There Mildred 


met Pa Duke, Ma Duke and Will Duke, Carlia's 
older brother. Pa Duke was a hard-working 
farmer, Ma Duke was likewise a hard-working 
farmer's wife, and Will Duke should have been a 
hard-working farmer's boy, but he was somewhat a 
failure, especially regarding the hard work part. 
Carlia, though so young, was already a hard- 
working farmer girl, with no chance of escape, 
as far as she could see, from the hard-working 
part. The Duke house, though clean and roomy, 
lacked the dainty home touches which mean so 
much. There were no porch, no lawn, no trees. 
The home was bare inside and out. 

In deference to the ^'company" Carlia was per- 
mitted to *' visit'' with her friend that afternoon; 
Apparently, these two girls had very little in 
common, but when left to themselves they found 
many mutual interests. 

Toward the close of the afternoon, Dorian ap- 
peared. He found the girls out in the yard, 
Carlia seated on the topmost pole of the corral 
fence, and Mildred standing beside her. 

'^ Hello girls," Dorian greeted. ''I've come to 
give you an invitation." 

''What, a party?" exclaimed Carlia, jumping 
down from her perch. 

"Not a dancing party, you little goose — just 
a surprise party." 

"On who?" 

"On Uncle Zed." 

"Uncle Zed. 0, shucks!" 


''Well, of course, you do not have to go,'' said 

''I think you're mean. I do want to go if 
Mildred is going." 

''I don't know Uncle Zed," said Mildred, '*but 
if Mrs. Trent and Dorian wish me to go, I shall 
be pleased; and of course, you will go with us." 

''She's invited," repeated Dorian. ''It's Uncle 
Zed's seventy-fifth birthday. Mother keeps track 
of them, the only one who does, I guess, for he 
doesn't do it himself. We're just going down to 
visit with him this evening. He's a very fini> 
old man, is Uncle Zed," this last to Mildred. 

"Is he your uncle?" 

"Oh, no; he's just uncle to everybody and no 
one in particular. He's all by himself, and has 
no folks?" 

Just before the dusk of the evening, the little 
party set out for the home of Zedekiah Manning, 
generally and lovingly known as Uncle Zed. He 
lived about half a mile down the road in a two- 
roomed log house which had a big adobe chimney 
on one side. His front yard was abloom with 
the autumn flowers. The path leading to his 
door was neatly edged by small cobble stones. 
Autumn tinted ivy embowered his front door and 
climbed over the wall nearly to the low roof. 

Uncle Zed met the visitors at the door. "Well, 
well," he exclaimed, "come right in. I'll light 
the lamp." Then he assisted them to find seats. 

Mildred looked keenly at Uncle Zed, whom 


she found to be a little frail old man with clean 
white hair and beard, and kindly, smiling face. 
He sat dovm with his company and nibbed his 
hands in a way which implied: '^And what does 
all this mean?" Mildred noted that the wall, 
back of his own chair, was nearly covered with 
books, and a number of volumes lay on the table. 
The room was furnished for the simple needs of 
the lone occupant. A fire smouldered in the open 

'* Now, Uncle Zed, have you forgotten again?" 
inquired Mrs. Trent. 

'* Forgotten what? I suppose I have, for my 
memory is not so good as it used to be. ' ^ 

''Your memory never was good regarding the 
day of the year you were born." 

''Day when I was born? What, has my birth- 
day come around again? Well, sure; but I had 
quite forgotten. How these birthdays do pile up 
on one." 

"How old are you today?" asked Dorian. 

"How old? Let me see. I declare, I must be 

"Isn't he a funny man," whispered Carlia to 
Mildred, who appeared not to hear the comment, 
so interested was she in the old man. 

"And so youVe come to celebrate," went on 
Uncle Zed, "come to congratulate me that I am 
one year nearer the grave." 

"Now, Uncle Zed, you know-—" 

"Tes; I know; forgive me for teasing; I know 


why you come to wish me well. It is that I have 
kept the faith one year more, and that I am twelve 
months nearer my heavenly reward. That's it, 
isn't it?'' 

Uncle Zed pushed his glasses up on his fore- 
head to better see his company, especially Mildred. 
Mrs. Trent made the proper introduction, then 
lifted the picnic basket from the table to a corner. 

'*We're just going to spend an hour or so with 
you," explained Mrs. Trent. ^'We want you to 
talk, Mildred to play, and then we'll have a bite 
to eat. We'll just sit about your grate, and 
look into the glow of the fire while you talk." 
However, Dorian and Mildred were scanning the 

''What's this set?" the young girl asked. 

Dorian bent down to read the dim titles, 
''The Millennial Star" he said. 

"And here's another set." 

"The Journal of Discourses" he replied. 

"My, all sermons? they must be dry reading." 

Uncle Zed heard their conversation, and stepped 
over to them. "Are you also interested in 
books?" he asked. "Dorian and I are regular 
book-worms, you know." 

Oh, yes, she was interested in books. 

"But there are books and books, you know," 
went on Uncle Zed. "You like story books, no 
doubt. So do I. There 's nothing better than a 
rattling good love story, eh, young lady?" 



Mildred hardly knew just how to take this re- 
mark, so she did not reply. 

''Here's the most wonderful love story ever 
written/' He took from the shelf a very ordi- 
nary looking volume, called the ''Doctrine and 
Covenants." Carlia and Mrs. Trent now joined 
the other three. They also were interested. 

"You wouldn't be looking in the 'Doctrine and 
Covenants' for love stories^ would you; but here 
in the revelation on the eternity of the marriage 
covenant we find that men and women, under the 
proper conditions and by the proper authority, 
may be united as husbands and wives, not only 
for time, but for eternity. Most love stories end 
when the lovers are married; but think of the 
endlessness of life and love under this new and 
everlasting covenant of marriage — but I mustn'^t 
preach so early in the evening." 

"But we like to hear it, Uncle Zed," said 

"Indeed, we do," added Mildred. "Tell us 
more about your books." 

"Here is one of my precious volumes — Orson 
Pratt's works. When I get hungry for the solid, 
soul-satisfying doctrines of the kingdom, I read 
Orson Pratt. Parley Pratt also is good. Here 
is a book which is nearly forgotten, but which 
contains beautiful presentations of the gospel, 
'Spencer's Letters'. Dorian, look here." He 
handed the young man a small, ancient-looking, 
leather bound book. "I found it in a second- 


hand store and paid fifteen cents for it. Yes, 
it's a second edition of the 'Doctrine and Coven- 
ants/ printed by John Taylor in Nauvooo in 1844. 
The rest of my collection is familiar to you, I am 
sure. Here is a complete set of the ^Contributor' 
and this is my 'Era' shelf, and here are most 
of the more modern church works. Let us now 
go back to the fire.'' 

After they were again seated, Mildred asked 
him if he had known Brigham Young. She always 
liked to hear the pioneers talk of their experien- 

''No" replied Uncle Zed, "I never met Presi- 
dent Young, but I believe I know him as well as 
many w^ho had that pleasure. I have read every- 
thing that I could get in print which Brigham 
Young ever said. I have read all his discourses 
in those volumes. He was not a polished speaker, 
I understand, and he did not often follow a 
theme; but mixed with the more commonplace 
subjects of irrigation, Indian troubles^ etc., which, 
in his particular day had to be spoken of, are 
some of the most profound gospel truths in any 
language. Gems of thought shine from every 
page of his discourses.'' 

Carlia was nodding in a warm corner. Uncle 
Zed rambled on reminiscently until Mrs. Trent 
suddenly arose, spoke sharply to Carlia, and lifted 
the basket of picnic on to the table. 

"We'll have our refreshments now," she said, 



*'and then we must be going. Uncle Zed goes 
early to bed, and so should we/' 

The table was spread: roast chicken, brought by 
Carlia; dainty sandwiches, made by Mildred; 
apple pie from Mrs. Trent's cupboard; a jar of 
apricot preserves, suggested by Dorian. Uncle 
Zed asked a blessing not only on the food, but 
on the kind hands which had provided it. Then 
they ate heartily, and yet leaving a generous part 
to be left in Uncle Zed's own cupboard. 1 

Then Dorian had a presentation to make. He 
took from the basket a small package, unwrapped 
it, and handed a book to the man who was seventy- 
five years old. ^. 

''I couldn't do much by way of the eats," said 
Dorian, ''so my present is this." 

'' 'Drummond's Natural Law in the Spiritual 
World' " read Uncle Zed. ''Why, Dorian, this is 
fine of you. How could you guess my wishes so 
nicely. For a long time, this is just the book I 
have wanted." 

"I'm glad. I thought you'd like it." 

"Fine, fine," said the old man, fondling the 
volume as he would some dear object, as indeed, 
every good book was to him. 

Then Mildred got out her violin, and after the 
proper tuning of the strings, she placed it under 
her shapely chin. She played without music some 
of the simple heart melodies, and then some of the 
Sunday School songs which the company softly 
accompanied by words. 



Carlia poked the log in the grate into a blaze, 
then slyly turned the lamp wick dawn. When 
detected and asked why she did that she replied : 

'*I wanted to make it appear more like a picnic 
party around a camj? fire in the hills/' 


DORIAN'S high school days in the city be- 
gan that fall, a little late because he had 
so many things to set right at home; but 
he soon made up the lost time, for he was a 
student not afraid of hard work. He walked 
back and forth the three miles. Mrs. Brown 
offered him a room at her large city residence, 
but he could not accept it because of his daily 
home chores. However, he occasionally called on 
the Brown's who tried to make him feel as much 
at home as they did at Greenstreet. 

Never before were days so perfect to Dorian, 
never before had he so enjoyed the fleeting hours. 
For the first week or two, he was a little shy, but 
the meeting each morning with boys and girls of 
his own age and mingling with them in their 
studies and their recreations, soon taught him that 
they were all very much alike, just happy, care- 
free young people, most of them trying to get an 
education. He soon learned, also, that he could 
easily hold his own in the class work with the 


brightest of them. The teachers, and students 
also, soon learned to know this. Boys came to 
him for help in problems, and the yonnger girls 
chattered about him with laughing eyes and 
tossing curls. What a wonder it was! He the 
simple, plainly-dressed country boy, big and awk- 
ward and ugly as he thought himself to be, be- 
coming a person of some importance. And so 
the days went all too swiftly by. Contrary to 
his younger boyhood's experience, the closing hour 
came too soon, when it was time to go home to 
mother and chores and lessons. 

And the mother shared the boy's happiness, for 
she could see the added joy of living and working 
which had come into his life by the added oppor- 
tunities and new environment. He frequently dis- 
cussed with his mother his lessons. She was not 
well posted in the knowledge derived from 
books, and sometimes she mildly resented this 
newer learning which he brought into the homo 
and seemed to intrude on her old-established ideas. 
For instance, when the cold winter nights came, 
and Dorian kept open his bedroom window, the 
mother protested that he would *^ catch his death 
of cold." Night air and drafts are very dan- 
gerous, especially if let into one's bedroom, she held. 

''But, mother, I must have air to breathe," 
said Dorian, ''and what other kind of air can I 
have at night? I might store a little day-air in 
my room, but I would soon exhaust its life-giving 
qualities at night. You know, mother," he went 


on in the assurance of his newly acquired knowl- 
edge, '*I guess the Lord knew what He was about 
when He enveloped the earth with air which 
presses down nearly fifteen pounds to the square 
inch so that it might permeate every possible nook 
and corner of the globe/' Then he went on to ex- 
plain the wonderful process of blood purification 
in the lungs, and demonstrated to her that the 
breath is continually throwing off foul matter. 
He did this by breathing into a fruit jar, screwing 
on the lid for a little while, and then having the 
nose make the test. 

''Some bed rooms IVe gone into smell just like 
that," he said. 

*'Here, mother is a clipping from a magazine. 
Listen : 

'* 'Of all the marvels of God's workmanship, 
none is more wondrous than the air. Think of 
our all being bathed in a substance so delicate 
as to be itself unperceived, yet so dense as to be 
the carriage to our senses of messages from the 
world about us! It is never in our way; it 
does not ask notice; we only know it is there 
by the good it does us. And this exquisitely soft, 
pure, yielding, unseen being, like a beautiful and 
beneficent fairy, brings us blessings from all 
around. It has the skill to wash our blood clean 
from all foulness. Its weight keeps us from 
tumbling to pieces. It is a reservoir where the 
waters lie stored, until they fall and gladden the 
earth. It is a great-coat that softens to us the 


heat of the day, and the cold of the night. It 
carries sounds to our ears and smells to our 
nostrils. Its movements fill Nature with ceaseless 
change; and without their aid in wafting ships 
over the sea, commerce and civilization would 
have been scarce possible. It is of all wonders 
the most wonderful.' '' 

At another time when Dorian had a cold, and 
consequently, a loss of appetite, his mother urged 
him to eat more, saying that he must have 
strength to throw off his cold. 

'^What is a coldT' he smilingly asked. 

'*Why, a cold is — a cold, of course, you silly 

What does it do to the activities of the bodyf 
I'm not a doctor; how can I tell." 

''AH mothers are doctors and nurses; they do a 
lot of good, and some things that are not so 
good. For instance, why should I eat more when 
I have a cold?" She did not reply, and so 
he went on: ''The body is very much like a 
stove or a furnace; it is burning material all the 
time. Sometimes the clinkers accumulate and 
stop the draft, both in the human as well as the 
iron stove. When that happens, the sensible thing 
to do is not to throw in more fuel but to clean 
out the clinkers first." 

"Where did you get all that wisdom, Dorian?" 

"I got it from my text book on hygiene, and I 
think it's true because it seems so reasonable." 

"Well, last night's talk led me to believe that 


you would become a philosopher; now^ the trend 
is more toward the doctor; tomorrow I'll think 
you are studying law." 

''Oh, but we are, mother; you ought to hear 
us in our civil government class. We have organ- 
ized into a Congress of the United States, and we 
are going to make laws.'' 

''You 11 be elected President, I suppose." 

*'I'm one of the candidates." 

"Well, my boy" she smiled happily at him, "I 
hope you will be elected to every good thing, and 
that you will fill evei*y post with honor ; and now, 
I would like you to read to me from the 'Lady of 
the Lake' while I darn your stockings. Your 
father used to read the story to me a long, long 
time ago, and your voice is very much like his 
when 3^ou read." 

And thus wdth school and home and ward duties 
the winter passed. Spring called him again to 
the fields to which he went with new zeal, for 
life w^as opening to him in a way which life is 
in the habit of doing to the young of his age. 
Mildred Brown and her mother were in California. 
He heard from her occasionally by way of post- 
cards, and once she sent him one of her sketches 
o:^^^^eaiL Carlia Duke also was not forgotten 
by Mildred. Dorian and Carlia met frequently as 
neighbors will do, and they often spoke of their 
mutual friend. The harvest was again good that 
fall, and Dorian once more took up his studies at 
the high school in the city. Carlia finished the 


grades as Dorian completed his second year, and 
the following year Carlia walked with Dorian to 
the high school. That was no great task for the 
girl, now nearly grown to young womanhood, and 
it was company for both of them. During these 
walks Carlia had many questions to ask about 
her lessons, and Dorian was always pleased to 
help her. 

*'I am such a dunce, *^ she would say, *'I wish 
I was as smart as you.'' 

*'You must say 'were' when you wish. I were 
as smart as you," he corrected. 

''0, yes: I forgot. My, but grammar is hard, 
especially to a girl which — '' 

'*No — a girl who; which refers to objects and 
animals, who to persons." 

Carlia laughed and swung her books by the 
strap. Dorian was not carrying them that day. 
Sometimes he was absentminded regarding the 
little courtesies. 

The snow lay hard packed in the road and it 
creaked under their feet. Carlia 's"^ cheeks glowed 
redder than ever in contact with the keen ^vinter 
air. They walked on in silence for a time. 

''Say, Dorian, why do you not go and see 
Mildred?" asked Carlia, not looking at lumV 'but 
rather at the eastern mountains. 

"Why? Is she not well?" 

"She is never well now. She looks bad to 


( ( 

When did you see her?" 

58 DOaiAN 

*'Last Saturday. I called at the house, and she 
asked about you — ^Poor girl!" 

"What do you mean by that?" 

''You are very smart in some things, but are 
a stupid dunce in other things. Mildred is like 
an angel both in looks and — everything. I wish 
I was — ^were half as good." 

''But how am I such a dunce, Carlia?" 

"In not seeing how much Mildred thinks of 

"Thinks of me? Mildred?" 

"She just loves you." 

Carlia still looked straight ahead as though 
fearful to see the agitation she had brought to the 
young man; but he looked at her, with cheeks 
still aflame. He did not understand Carlia. Why 
had she said that? Was she just teasing him? 
But she did not look as if she were teasing. 
Silently they walked on to the school house door. 

But Dorian could not forget what Carlia had 
said. All day it intruded into his lessons. "She 
said she loves me" he whispered to his heart only. 
Could it be possible? Even if she did, what final 
good would come of it? The distance between 
them was still too great, for he was only a 
poor farmer boy. Dear Mildred — ^his heart did 
not chide him for thinking that — so frail, so 
weak, so beautiful. What if she — should die! 
Dorian was in a strange state of mind for a 
number of days. He longed to visit the Brown 
home, yet he could not find excuse to go. He 


could not talk to anybody about what was in his 
mind and heart, not even to his mother with 
whom he always shared his most hidden thoughts. 

One evening he visited Uncle Zed, ostensibly, to 
talk about a book. Uncle Zed was deep in the 
study of ''Natural Law in the Spiritual World'' 
and would have launched into a discussion of 
what he had found, but Dorian did not respond; 
he had other thoughts in mind. 

''Uncle Zed,'' he said, "how can I become some- 
thing else than a farmer?" 

The old man looked questioningly at his young 
friend. "What's the matter with being a farmer?" 
he asked. 

"Well, a farmer doesn't usually amount to 
much, I mean in the eyes of the world. Farmers 
seem to be in a different class from merchants, 
for example, or from bankers or other more 
genteel workers." 

"Listen to me, Dorian Trent." Uncle Zed laid 
down his book as if he had a serious task before 
him. "Let me tell you something. If you havn't 
done so before, begin now and thank the Lord 
that you began life on this globe of ours as a 
farmer's child and boy. Whatever you do or be- 
come in the future, you have made a good be 
ginning. You have already laid away in the 
way of concepts, we may say, a generous store of 
nature's riches, for you have been in close touch 
with the earth, and the life which teems in soil 
and air and the waters. Pity the man whose 


childish eyes looked out on nothing but paved 
streets and brick walls or whose young ears heard 
nothing but the harsh rumble of the city, for his 
early conceptions from which to interpret his later 
life is artificial and therefore largely untrue." 

Uncle Zed smiled up into the boy's face as if 
to ask, Do you get that? Dorian would have to 
have time to assimilate the idea; meanwhile, he 
had another question: 

''Uncle Zed, why are there classes among mem- 
bers of our Church?" 

''Classes? What do you mean?" 

"Well, the rich do not associate with the 
poor nor the learned with the unlearned. I 
know, of course, that this is the general rule in 
the world, but I think it should be different in 
the Church." 

"Yes; it ought to be and is different. There 
are no classes such as you have in mind in the 
Church, even though a few unthinking memberc> 
seem to imply it by their actions; but there is no 
real class distinction in the Church of Jesus Christ 
of Latter-day Saints, only such that are based 
on the doing of the right and the wrong. Char- 
acter alone is the standard of classification." 

"Yes,^I see that that should be true." 

"It is true. Let me illustrate: The presiding 
authority in the Church is not handed down from 
father to son, thus fostering an aristocratic ten- 
dency; also this authority is so wide-spread that 
anything like a "ruling family" would be im- 


possible. In a town where I once lived, the 
owner of the bank and the town blacksmith were 
called on missions. They both were assigned to 
the same field, and the blacksmith was appointed 
to preside over the banker. The banker submitted 
willingly to be directed in his missionary labors 
by one who, judged by worldly standards, was 
far beneath him in the social scale. I know a 
shoemaker in the city who is a teacher in the 
theological class of his ward, whose membership 
consists of merchants, lawyers, doctors, and the 
like. Although he is poor and earns his living 
by mending shoes, he is greatly respected for his 
goodness and his knowledge of Scriptural subjects 
and doctrine." 

'^So you think — that a young fellow might — 
that it would not be wrong— or foolish for a poor 
man to think a lot of — of a rich girl, for in- 
stance. ' ' 

Uncle Zed peered at Dorian over his glasses. 
The old man took him gently by the shoulders. 
Ah, that's what's back of all this, he thought; 
but what he said was: 

''My boy, Emerson said, 'Hitch your wagon to 
a star,' and I will add, never let go, although 
the rocks in the road may bump you badly. Why, 
there's nothing impossible for a young man like 
you. You may be rich, if you want to; I expect 
to see you learned; and the Priesthood which you 
have is your assurance, through your dilligence 
and faithfulness, to any heights. Yes, my boy; 


go ahead — love Mildred Brown all you want to; 
she's fine, but not a bit finer than you/' 

'*0h, Uncle Zed/' Dorian somewhat protested; 
but, nevertheless, he went home that evenyig with 
his heart singing. 


SOME days later word came to Mrs. Trent that 
Mildred was very ill. ^*Call on them after 
school/' she said to Dorian, ^'to see just how 
she is, and ask Mrs. Brown if I can do anything 
for her.'' 

Dorian did as he was directed. He went around 
to the back door for fear he might disturb the 
sick girl. Mrs. Brown herself, seeing him coming, 
met him and let him in. 

Yes, Mildred was very ill. Mrs. Brown waa 
plainly worried. Could he or his mother do any- 
thing to help? No; only to lend their faith and 
prayers. Would he come into the sick room to 
see her for a few minutes? Yes, if she desired it. 

Dorian followed the mother into the sick room, 
Mildred lay well propped up by pillows in a 
bed white as snow. She was thinner and 
paler than ever, eyes bigger, hair heavier and 
more golden. When she saw Dorian, she smiled 
and reached out her hand, letting it lie in the big 
strong one. 


''How are youT' she said, very low. 

''Well and fine, and how are you?'^ 

She simply shook her head gently and closed 
her eyes, seeming content to touch the strong 
young manhood beside her. The mother went 
quietly from the room, and all became quite still. 
Speech was difficult for the sick girl, and equally 
hard for the young man. But he looked freely 
at the angel-like face on the pillow without rebuke | 
from the closed eyes. He glanced about the room, 
beautifully clean and airy. All her books and 
her workmg material had been carried away as if 
she were through with them for good. In a corner 
on an easel stood an unfinished copy of "Sun- 
set in Marshland.'' Dorian's eyes rested for a 
moment on the picture, and as he again looked at 
the girl, he saw a smile pass over the marble- 
like face. 

That was all. Presently, he left the room, and 
without many words, the house. 

Each day after that Dorian managed to learn 
of the girl's condition, though he did not go into 
the sick chamber. On the sixth day word came 
to Dorian at school that Mildred was dying. He 
looked about for Carlia to tell her, but she was 
nowhere to be found. Dorian could not go home. 
Mildred was dying! The one girl — yes, the only 
one in all the world who had looked at him with 
her heart in the look, was leaving the world, and 
him. "Why could she not live, if only for hid 
sake? He sat in the school room until all had 


gone, and he was alone with the janitor. His 
open book was still before him. but he saw not 
the printed page. Then the short winter dav 
closed. Dusk came on. The janitor had finished 
sweeping the room and was ready to leave. 
Dorian gathered up his books, put on his overcoat^ 
and went out. Mildred was dying! Perhaps she 
was about to begin 'that great journey into the 
unknown. Would she be afraid? Would she not 
need a strong hand to help her? "Mildred," he 

He walked on slowly up the street toward the 
Brown's. Darkness came on. The light gleamed 
softly through the closed blinds of the house 
Everything was very still. He did not try to be 
admitted, but paced back and forth on the other 
side of the street. Back and forth he went for a 
long time, it seemed. Then the front door opened, 
and the doctor passed out. Mildred must either 
be better or beyond all help. He wanted to ask 
the doctor, but he could not bring himself to 
intercept him. The house remained quiet. Some 
of the lights were extinguished. Dorian crossed 
the street. He must find out something. He 
stood by the gate, not knowing what to do. The 
door opened again, and a woman, evidently a 
neighbor, came out. She saw the young man and 

"Pardon me," said Dorian, "but tell me how 
Mildred— Miss Brown is?" 

"She just died." 


''Thank you.'' 

The woman went into a nearby house. Dorian 
moved away, benumbed with the despair which 
sank into his heart at the final setting of his sun. 
Dead! Mildred was dead! He felt the night 
wind blow cold down the street, and he saw 
the storm clouds scudding along the distant sky. 
In the deep blue directly above him a star shone 
brightly, but it only reminded him of what Uncle 
Zed had said about hitching to a star; yes, but 
what if the star had suddenly been taken from 
the sky! 

A form of a girl darted across the street to- 
ward him. He stopped and saw that it was 

''Dorian'' she cried, "how is she?" 

"She has just died." 

"Dead! 0, dear," she wailed. 

They stood there under the street light, the 
girl looking with great pity into the face of the 
young man. She was only a girl, and not a very 
wise girl, but she saw how he suffered, and her 
heart went out to his heart. She took his hand and 
held it firmly within her warmer grasp; and by 
that simple thing the young man seemed again 
to get within the reach of human sympathy. Then 
they walked on without speaking, and she led 
him along the streets and on to the road which 
led to Greenstreet. 

"Come on, Dorian, let's go home," she said. 

"Yes; let's go home, Carlia." / 


THE death of Mildred Brown affected Dorian 
Trent most profoundly. Not that he dis- 
played any marked outward signs of his 
feelings, but his very soul was moved to its 
depths, sometimes as of despair, sometimes as of 
resentment. Why, he asked himself, should God 
send — he put it this way — send to him this beauti- 
ful creature who filled his heart so completely, 
why hold her out to him as if inviting him to 
take her, and then suddenly snatch her away out 
of his life — out of the life of the world! . 

For many days Dorian went about as if in a 
pained stupor. His mother, knowing her boy, 
tried in a wise way to comfort him; but it was 
not altogether a success. His studies were neg- 
lected, and he had thoughts of quitting school 
altogether; but he did not do this. He dragged 
through the few remaining days until spring, 
when he eagerly went to work on the open 
reaches of the farm, where he was more away 
from human beings and nearer to that something 


in his heart. He worked long and hard and faith- 
fully that spring. 

On the upper bank of the canal, where the sage- 
brush stood untouched, Dorian that summer found 
the first sego blossoms. He had never observed 
them so closely before nor seen their real beauty. 
How like Mildred they were! He gathered a 
bouquet of them that Saturday afternoon as he 
went home, placed them in a glass of water, and 
then Sunday afternoon he wrapped them in a 
damp newspaper and took the bouquet with him 
to town. His Sunday trips to the city were usu- 
ally for the purpose of visiting Mildred's grave. 
The sun shone warm that day from a blue sky 
as Dorian came slowly and reverently to the 
plot where lay all that was earthly of one whom 
he loved so well. The new headstone gleamed in 
white marble and the young grass stood tender 
and green. Against the stone lay a bunch of 
withered wild roses. Someone had been there 
before him that day. Whom could it be? Her 
mother was not in the city, and who else would 
remember the visit af the angel-being who had 
returned to her eternal home? A pang shot 
through his heart, and he was half tempted to 
turn without placing his own tribute on the 
grave, then immediately he knew the thought was 
foolish. He took off the wrapping and placed 
his fresher flowers near the more withered ones. 
Later that summer, he learned only incidently 
that it had been Carlia who had been before him 
that afternoon. 


During those days, Carlia kept out of Dorian's 
way as much as possible. She even avoided 
walking to and from school with him. He was 
so absentminded even with her that she in time 
came to resent it in her feelings. She could not 
understand that a big, very-much-alive boy should 
have his mind so fixed on a dead girl that he 
should altogether forget there were living ones 
about, especially one, Carlia Duke. 

One evening Dorian met Uncle Zed driving 
his cow home from the pasture, and the old man 
invited the younger man to walk along with 
him. Dorian always found Uncle Zed's company 

^'Why haven't you come to me with your trou- 
ble?" abruptly asked Uncle Zed. 

Dorian started, then hung his head. 

^*We never have any unshared secrets, you 
know, and I may have been able to help you." 

*'I couldn't talk to anybody." 

'*No; I suppose not." 

The cow was placed in the corral, and then 
Uncle Zed and Dorian sat down on a grassy bank. 
The sun was painting just such a picture of the 
marshlands as Dorian knew so well. 

'^But I can talk to you" continued the old man 
as if there had been no break in his sentences. 
'^ Death, I know, is a strange and terrible thing, 
for youth; when you get as old as I, I hope you 
will look on death as nothing more than a re- 
lease from mortality, a moving from one sphere 



to another, a step along the eternal line of pro- 
gress. I suppose that it is just as necessary that 
we pass out of the world by death as that we 
enter it by birth; and I further suppose that the 
terror with which death is vested is for the 
purpose of helping us to cling to this earth-life 
until our mission here is completed/* 

Dorian did not speak; his eyes were on the 

*' Imagine, Dorian, this worlds just as it is, with 
all its sin and misery and without any death. 
What would happen? We would all, I fear, be- 
come so self-centered, so hardened in selfishness 
that it would be difficult for the gentle power of 
love to reach us; but now there is hardly a 
family that has not one or more of its members 
on the other side. And these absent loved ones 
are anchors to our souls, tied to us by the never- 
ending cords of love and affection. You, your- 
self, my boy, never have had until now many 
interests other than those of this life ; now your 
interests are broadened to another world, and 
that 's something worth while .... Now, come 
and see me often." They arose, each to go to 
his home. 

''I will, Uncle Zed. Thank you for what you 
have said.'' 

Dorian completed his four years high school. 
Going to the University might come later, but now 
he was moved by a spirit of activity to do bigger 
things with his farm, and to enlarge it, if possible. 


About this time, dry-farming had taken the atten- 
tion of the farmers in his locality, and many of 
them had procured lands on the sloping foothills 
Dorian, with a number of other young men had 
gone up the nearby canyon to the low hills of 
the valley beyond and had taken up lands. That 
first summer Dorian spent much of his time in 
breaking up the land. As timber was not far 
away, he built himself a one-roomed log house and 
some corrals and outhouses. A mountain stream 
rushed by the lower corner of his farm, and its 
wild music sang him to sleep when he spent the 
night in the hills. He furnished his ^^ summer 
residence'' with a few simple necessities so that 
he could live there a number of days at a time. 
He minded not the solitude. The wild odorous 
verdure of the hills, the cool breezes, the song 
of the distant streams, the call of the birds, all 
seemed to harmonize with his own feelings at that 
time. He had a good kerosene lamp, and at nights 
when he was not too tired, he read. On his 
visits to the city he usually had an eye for book 
bargains, and thus his board shelving came to be 
quite a little library. He had no method in his 
collecting, no course of connected study. At one 
time he would leisurely read one of Howell's 
easy-going novels, at another time he would be 
kept wide-eyed until midnight with '^Lorna 
Doone" or with '^Ben Hur." 

Dorian had heard of Darwin, of Huxley, of In- 
gersol and of Tom Payne, but he had never read 


^^ __ 

anything but selections from these writers. Now 
he obtained a copy of the *' Origin of Species'* 
and a book by Ingersol. These he read carefully. 
Darwin's book was rather heavy, but by close 
application, the young student thought he learned 
what the scientist was '^driving at.'' This book 
disturbed him somewhat. There seemed to be 
much truth in it, but also some things which did 
not agree with what he had been taught to be 
true. In this he realized his lack of knowledge. 
More knowledge must clear up any seeming con- 
tradiction, he reasoned. Ingersol was more read- 
able, snappy, witty, hitting the Bible in a fearless 
way. Dorian had no doubt that all of Inger- 
sol's points could be answered, as he himself 
could refute many of them. 

One day as Dorian was browsing as usual in a 
book store he came across a cheap copy of Drum- 
mond's '^ Natural Law in the Spiritual World," 
the book which he had given Uncle Zed. As he 
wanted a copy himself, he purchased this one and 
took it with him to his cabin in the hills. 
Immediately he was interested in the book, and 
he filled its pages with copious notes and marks 
of emphasis. 

It was Sunday afternoon in mid-summer at 
Greenstreet. The wheat again stood in the shock. 
The alfalfa waved in scented purple. Dorian and 
the old philosopher of Greenstreet sat in the shade 
of the Cottonwood and looked out on the farm 
scene as they talked. 



''I've also been reading 'Natural Law in the 
Spiritual World' " said Dorian. 

''Good/' replied Uncle Zed. "I was going to 
lend you my copy, so we could talk about it in- 
telligently. What message have you found in it 
for you?" 

Yes; every book should have a message and 
should deliver it to the reader. Drummond's 
book thundered a message to me, but it came too 
late. I am old, and past the time when I could 
heed any such call. If I were young, if I -if I 
were like you, Dorian, you who have life before 
you, what might not I do, with the help of the 

"What, Uncle Zed?" 

"Drummond was a clergyman and a professor 
of natural history and science. As such, he was 
a student of the laws of God as revealed both 
through the written word of irupiration and in 
nature about him. In his book he aims to proves 
that the spiritual world is controlled by the same; 
laws which operate in the natural wold; and as' 
you perhaps discovered in your reading, he comes 
very nearly proving his claim. He presents some 
wonderfully interesting analogies. Of course, 
much of his theology is of the perverted sectarian 
kind, and therein lies the weakness of his argu- 
ment. If he had had the clear truth of the re- 
stored gospel, how much brighter would his facts 
have been illumed, how much stronger would 


have been his deductions. Why, even I with my 
limited scientific knovs^ledge can set him right in 
many places. So I say, if I were but a young 
man like you, do you know what I'd dof 
What?'' again questioned Dorian. 
I would devote all my mind, might and 
strength to the learning of truth, of scientific 
truth. I would cover every branch of science pos- 
sible in the limits of one life, especially the 
natural sciences. Then with my knowledge of 
the gospel and the lamp of inspiration which the 
priesthood entitles me to, I could harmonize the 
great body of truth coming from any and every 
source. Dorian, what a life work that would be!" 

The old man looked smilingly at his companion 
with a strange, knowing intimation. He spoke of 
himself, but he meant that Dorian should take the 
suggestion. Dorian could pick up his beautiful 
dream and make it come true. Dorian, with life 
and strength, and a desire for study and truth 
could accomplish this very desirable end. The old 
man placed his hand lovingly on the young man's 
shoulder, as he continued: 

''You are the man to do this, Dorian — you, iiot 

''I— Uncle Zed, do you believe that?" 

''I do. Listen, my boy. I see you looking over 
the harvested field. It is a fine work you are 
doing; thousands can plant and harvest year 
after year; but few there are who can and will 
devote their lives to the planting of faith and the 


nourishing and the establishing of faith in the 
hearts of men; and that's what we need now to 
properly answer the Lord's cry that when He 
cometh shall He find faith on the earth ? . . . . Let 
the call come to you — but there, in the Lord's 
own good time. Com^ into the house. I havd 
a new book to show you, also I have a very 
delicious cherry pie." 

They went into the house together, where they 
inspected both book and pie. Dorian weakly 
objected to the generous portion which was cut 
for him, but Uncle Zed explained that the process 
of division not only increased the number of pieces 
of pie, but also added to its tastiness. Dorian led 
his companion to talk about himself. 

''Yes," he said in reply to a question, ''I was 
born in England and brought up in the Wesleyan 
Methodist church. I was a great reader ever 
since I can remember. I read not onl7 history 
and some fiction, but even the dry-as-dust sermons 
were interesting to me. But I never seemed satis- 
fied. The more I read, the deeper grew the 
mysteries of life. Nowhere did I find a clear, 
comprehendible statement of what I, an entity 
with countless other entities, was doing here. 
Where had I come from, where was 1 going? I 
visited the churches within my reach. I heard the 
preachers and read the philosophers to obtain, if 
possible, a clue to the mystery of life. I studied, 
and prayed, and went about seeking, but never 


''But you did find the truth at last?" 
''Yes; thank the Lord. I found the opening 
in the darkness, and it came through the simple, 
humble, and not very learned elders of the Church 
of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints." 

"What is the principle trouble with all this 
learning of the world that it does not lead to the 

"The world's ignorance of God. Eternal life 
consists in knowing the only true God, and the 
world does not know Him; therefore, all their 
systems of religion are founded on a false basis. 
That is the reason there is so much uncertainty 
and floundering when philosophers and religionists 
try to make a known truth agree with their con- 
ceptions of God." 

"Explain that a little more to me, Uncle Zed." 

"Some claim that Nature is God, others that 

God only manifests Himself through nature. I 

read this latter idea many places. For instance. 

Pope says : 

" 'All are but parts of one stupendous whole 
Whose body nature is, and God the soul.' 

' ' Also Tennyson : 

'The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills 

and plains 
Are not these, soul, the vision of Him who 

Speak to Him there, for He hears, and spirit with 

spirit can meet. 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands 

and ftet.' 


'^TMs, no doubt, is beautiful poetry, but it telli 
only a part of the truth. God, by His Spirit is, 
and can be all the poet here describes. 'Whither 

s^ shall I go from thy spirit ? or whither shall I flee 
from thy presence?' exclaims the Psalmist. 'In 
him we live and move and have our being' de- 
clares Paul; but these statements alone are not 
enough for our proper understanding of the 
subject. We try to see God behind the veil of 
nature, in sun and wind and flower and fruit; 
but there is something lacking. Try now to form- 
ulate some distinct idea of what this universal and 
almighty force back of nature is. We are told 
that this force is God, whom we must love and 

s^ worship and serve. We want the feeling of near 
ness to satisfy the craving for love and protec- 
tion, but our intellect and our reason must also 
be somewhat satisfied. We must have some 
object on which to rest — we cannot always be 
floating about unsuspended in time and space. 

''Then there ij^ some further confusion: Chris- 
tian philosophers have tried to personify this 'soul 
of the universe,' for God, they say, thinks and 
feels and knows. They try to get a personality 
without form or bounds or dimentions, but it all 
ends in vagueness and confusion. As for me, and 
I think I am not so different from other men, — 
for me to be able to think of God, I must have 
some image of Him. I cannot think of love or 
good, or power or glory in the ^abstract. These 
must be expressed to me by symbols at least aa 


eminating from^ or inherent in, or exercised by 
some person. Love cannot exist alone: there must 
be one who loves and one who is being loved. 
Gk)d is love. That means to me that a person, a 
beautiful, glorified, allwise, benevolent being exer- 
cises that divine principle which is shed forth on 
you and me. 

''Now, if the world would only leave all this 
metaphysical meandering and come back to the 
simple truth, what a clearing of mists there would 
be! All their philosophies would have a solid 
basis if they would only accept the truth revealed 
anew to us through the Prophet Joseph Smith that 
God is one of a race, the foremost and first, if 
you wish it, but still one of a race of beings 
who inhabit the universe; that we humans are 
His children, begotten of Him in the pre-mortal 
world in His image; that we are on the upward 
path through eternity, following Him who has 
gone before and has marked out the way; that if 
we follow, we shall eventually arrive at the point 
where He now is. Ignorance of these things is 
what I understand to be ignorance of God." 

'*In England I lost my wife and two children. 
The gospel came to me shortly after, I am sure, 
to comfort me in the depths of my despair. Not 
one church on earth that I knew of, Catholic or 
Protestant, would hold out any hope of my ever 
being reunited with wife and children as such. 
There is no family life in heaven, they teach. At 


that time I went about listening to the preachers, 
and I delved into books. I made extensive copy- 
ings in my note books. I have them yet, and some 
day when you are interested I will show them t* 

'*I am interested now/' said Dorian. 

''But I'm not going to talk to you longer on 
this theme, even though it is Sunday and time for 
sermonizing. I'm going to meeting, where you 
also ought to go. You are not attending as 
regularly as you should." 

''No, but I've been very busy." 

"No excuse that. There is danger in remain- 
ing away too long from the established sources 
of spiritual inspiration and uplift, especially when 
one is reading Ingersol and Tom Paine. I have 
no fault to find with your ambition to get ahead 
in the world, but with it 'remember thy creator 
in the days of thy youth.' Are you neglecting 
your mother?" 

"No; I think not. Uncle Zed; but what do you 
mean about mother?" 

"You are all she has. Are you making her days 
happy by your personal care and presence. Are 
you giving of yourself to her?" 

"Well, perhaps I am not so considerate as I 
might be; I am away quite a lot; thank you for 
calling my attention to it." 

"Are you neglecting anybody else?" 

"Not that I know.'' 


'*6ood. Now I must clear away my table and 
get ready for meeting. You'll go with me.'' 

**I can't. I haven't my Sunday clothes." 

'^The Lord will not look at your clothes." 

''No; but a lot of people will." 

''We go to meeting to worship the Lord, not 
to be looked at by others. Go home and put on 
your Sunday best; there is time." The old 
man was busy between table and cupboard as he 
talked. ''Have you seen Carlia lately?" 

"No," replied Dorian. 

"The last time she was here I thought she was 
a little peaked in the face, for you know she has 
such a rosy, roly-poly one." 

"Is that so? She comes to see you, then?" 

"Yes; oftener than you do." 

"I never meet her here." 

"No; she manages that, I surmise." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I tell you Carlia is a lovely girl," continued 
Uncle Zed, ignoring his direct question. "Have 
you ever eaten butter she has churned?" 

"Not that I know." 

"She used to bring me a nice pat when my 
cow was dry; and bread of her own baking 
too, about as good as I myself make." He 
chuckled as he wiped the last dish and placed 
it neatly in the rack. 

Dorian arose to go. "Remember what I have 
told you this evening" said Uncle Zed. The old 


man from behind his window watched his young 
friend walk leisurely along the road until he 
reached the cross-lots path which led to the Duke 
home. Here he saw him pause, go on again, 
pause once more, then jump lightly over the 
fence and strike out across the field. Uncle Zed 
then went on finishing his preparations for meet- 

As Dorian walked across the field, he did think 
of what Uncle Zed had said to him. Dorian had 
built his castles, had dreamed his dreams; but 
never before had the ideas presented to him by 
Uncle Zed that afternoon ever entered in them. 
The good old man had seemed so eager to pass 
on to the young man an unfulfilled work, yes, a 
high, noble work. Dorian caught a glimpse of the 
greatness of it and the glory of it that afternoon, 
and his soul was thrilled. Was he equal to such 
a task? He had wanted to become a success- 
ful farmer, then his vision had gone on to the 
teaching profession; but beyond that he had not 
ventured. He was already well on the way to 
make a success of his farms. He liked the work. 
He could with pleasure be a farmer all his life. 
But should a man's business be all of life? Dorian 
realized, not of course in its fuller meaning, that 
the accumulating of worldly riches was only a 
means to the accomplishing of other and greater 
ends of life; and here was before him something 
worthy of any man's best endeavors. Here was a 


life's work which at its close would mean some- 
thing to him and to the w^orld. With these thoughts 
in his mind he stepped up to the rear of the Duke 
place where he saw someone in the corral with 
the cows, busy with her milking. 


HELLO, Carlia", greeted Dorian as he 
stopped at the yard and stood leaning 
against the fence. 

Carlia was just finishing milking a cow. As 
she straightened, with a three-legged stool in one 
hand and a foaming milk pail in the other, she 
looked toward Dorian. '^0, is that you? You 
scared me.'' 


'*A stranger coming so suddenly.'' 

The young man laughed. ''Nearly through?" 
he asked. 

''Just one more — ^Brindle, the kickey one." 

"Aren't you afraid of her?" 

Carlia laughed scornfully. The girl had beauti- 
ful white teeth. Her red cheeks were redder than 
ever. Her dark hair coiled closely about her 
shapely head. And she had grown tall, too, the 
young man noticed, though she was still plump 
aiad round-limbed. 


''My buckets are full, and Til have to take 
them to the house before I can finish, '^ she said. 
''You stay here until I come back — if you want 

''I don't want to — here, let me carry them.'' 
He took the pails from her hand, and they went 
to the house together. 

The milk was carried into the kitchen where 
Mrs. Duke was busy with pots and pans. Mr. 
Duke was before the mirror, giving the finishing 
touches to his hair. He was dressed for meeting. 
As he heard rather than saw his daughter enter, he 
asked : 

''Carlia, have you swilled the pigs?" 

''Not yet," she replied. 

"Well, don't forget — and say, you'd better give 
a little new milk to the calf. It's not getting 
along as well as it should — and, if you have time 
before meetin', throw a little hay to the horses." 

"All right, father, I'll see to all of it. As I'm 
not going to meeting, I'll have plenty of time." 

"Not goin'?" He turned, hair brush in hand, 
and saw Dorian. "Hello, Dorian," he greeted, 
"you're quite a stranger. You'll come along to 
meetin' with Carlia, I suppose. We will be late 
if we don't hurry." 

"Father, I told you I'm not going. I— "she 
hesitated as if not quite certain of her words — 
"I had to chase all over the hills for the cows, 
and I'm not through milking yet. Then there are 
the pigs and the calves and the horses to feed. 


But 111 not keep Dorian. You had better go 
with father'' — this to the j'-oung man who still 
stood by the kitchen door. 

*' Leave the rest of the chores until after meet- 
in V' suggested the father, somewhat reluctantly, 
to be sure, but in concession to Dorian's presence. 

^^I can't go to meeting either," said Dorian. 
^^I'm not dressed for it, so I'll keep Carlia com- 
pany, if you or she have no objections." 

'^Well, I've no objections, but I don't like you 
to miss your meetin's" 

'^We'll be good," laughed Dorian. 

'^But— " 

'^Come, father," the mother prompted, ^^you 
know I can't walk fast in this hot weather." 

Carlia got another pail, and she and Dorian 
went back to the corral. 

'^Let me milk," offered Dorian. 

'^No; you're strange, and she'd kick you over 
the fence." 

'*0, I guess not," he remarked; but he let the 
girl finish her milking. He again carried the 
milk back; he also took the **slop" to the pigs 
and threw the hay to the horses, while the girl 
gave the new milk to the butting calf ; then back to 
the house where they strained the milk. Then the 
young man was sent into the front room while the 
girl changed from work to Sunday attire. 

The front room was very hot and uncomfort- 
able. The young man looked about on the fam- 
iliar scene. There were the same straiofht-backed 


chairs, the same homemade carpet, more faded and 
threadbare than ever, the same ugly enlarged 
photographs within their massive frames which 
the enterprising agent had sold to Mrs. Duke. 
There was the same lack of books or music or 
anything pretty or refined; and as Dorian stood 
and looked about, there came to him more forcibly 
than ever the barrenness of the room and of the 
house in general. True, his own home was very 
humble, and yet there was an air of comfort and 
refinement about it. The Duke home had always 
impressed him as being cold and cheerless 
and ugly. There were no protecting porches, no 
lawn, no flowers, and the barn yard had crept 
close up to the house. It was a place to work. 
The eating and the sleeping were provided, so that 
work could be done, farm and kitchen work with 
their dirt and litter. The father and the mother 
and the daughter were slaves to work. Only in 
work did the parents companion with the 
daughter. The visitors to the house were mostly 
those who came to talk about cattle and crops 
and irrigation. 

As a child, Carlia was naturally cheerful and 
loving; but her sordid environment seemed to be 
cnishing her. At times she struggled to get out 
from under; but there seemed no way, so she 
gradually gave in to the inevitable. She became 
resentful and sarcastic. Her black eyes frequent- 
ly flashed in scorn and anger. As she grew in 
physical strength and be«utr, these nnfortnnate 

DOKiAN 87 

traits of character became more pronounced. The 
budding womanhood which should have been care- 
fully nurtured by the right kind of home and 
neighborhood was often left to develop in wild 
and undirected ways. Dorian Trent as he stood 
in that front room awaiting her had only a dim 
conception of all this. 

Carlia came in while he was yet standing. She 
had on a white dress and had placed a red rose 
in her hair. 

''0, say, Carlia!" exclaimed Dorian at sight 
of her. 

''What's the matter?'' she asked. 

'^Here you go dolling up, and look at me." 

''You're all right. Open the door, it's terribly 
stuffy in here." 

Dorian opened the tightly stuck door. Then he 
turned and stood looking at the girl before him. 
It seemed to him that he had never seen her so 
grown-up and so beautiful. 

"Say, Carlia, when did you grow up?" he 

'* While you have been away growing up too." 

''It's the long dress, isn't it?" 

"And milking cows and feeding pigs and pitch- 
ing hay." She gave a toss to her head and held 
out her roughened red hands as proof of her as- 
sertion. He stepped closer to her as if to examine 
them more carefully, but she swiftly hid them 
behind her back. The rose, loosened from the 
tossing head, fell to the floor, and Dorian picke'l 


it up. He sniffed at it then handed it to her. 

''Where did you get it?" he asked. 

She reddened. ''None of your — Say, sit down, 
can't you.'' 

Dorian seated himself on the sofa and invited 
her to sit by him, but she took a chair by the 

"You're not very neighborly," he said. 

"As neighborly as you are," she retorted. 

"What's the matter with you, Carlia?" 

"Nothing the matter with me. I'm the same; 
only I must have grown up, as you say. ' ' 

A sound as of someone driving up the road 
came to them through the open door. Carlia 
nervously arose and listened. She appeared to 
be frightened, as she looked out to the road 
without wanting to be seen. A light wagon 
rattled by, and the girl, somewhat relieved, went 
back to her chair. 

"Isn't it warm in here?" she asked. 

"It's warm everywhere." 

"I can't stay here. Let's go out — for a walk." 

' ' All right — come on. " 

They closed the door, and went out at the rear. 
He led the way around to the front, but Carlia 

"Let's go down by the field," she said. "The 
road is dusty." 

The day was closing with a clear sky. A Sun- 
day calm rested over meadow and field, as the 
two strolled down by the ripening wheat. The 


girl seemed uneasy until the house was well out 
of sight. Then she seated herself on a grassy 
bank by the willows. 

''I'm tired," she said with a sigh of relief, 

Dorian looked at her with curious eyes. Carlia, 
grown up, w^as more of a puzzle than ever. 

''You are working too hard/' he ventured. 

"Hard work won't kill anybody — but it's the 
other things." 

"What other things?" 

"The grind, the eternal grind — the dreary same- 
ness of every day." 

"You did not finish the high school. Why did 
you quit?" ^^ i- ^ jl^Wpffl 

"I had to, to save mother. Mother was not 
only doing her usual house work, but nearly all 
the outside choring besides. Father was away 
most of the time on his dry farm too, and he's 
blind to the work at home. He seems to think 
that the only real work is the plowing and the 
watering and the harvesting, and he would havo 
let mother go on killing herself. Gee, these 
men!" The girl viciously dug the heel of her 
shoe into the sod. 

"I'm sorry you had to quit school, Carlia." 
"Sorry? I wanted to keep on more than I 
ever wanted anything in my life; but — " 

'^But I admire you for coming to the rescue 
of your mother. That was fine of you." 

"I'm glad I can do some fine thing." 

Dorian had been standing. He now seated 


himself on the bank beside her. The world about 
them was very still as they sat for a few moments 
without speaking. 

''Listen/' said he, ''I believe Uncle Zed is 
preaching. The meeting house windows are wide 
open, for a wonder. 

''He can preach," she remarked. 

"He told me you visit him frequently." 

"I do. He's the grandest man, and I like to 
talk to him." 

"So do I. I had quite a visit with him this 
afternoon. I rather fooled him, I guess." 


"He told me to go home and change my 
clothes, and then go to meeting; but I came here 

"Why did you do that?" 

"To see you, of course." 

"Pooh, as if I was anything to look at." 

"Well, you are, Oarlia," and his eyes rested 
steadily on her to prove his contention. "Why 
didn't you want to go to meeting* this evening?" 

"You heard me tell father." 

"That wasn't the whole truth. I was not the 
reason because you had decided not to go before 
I came." 

"Well — ^how do you know that? but, anyway, 
it's none of your business, where I go, is it?" 
She made an effort to stare him out of countew- 
ance, but it ended in lowered bead and eves. 


''Carlial No, of course, it isn't. Excuse me for 
asking. ' ' 

There was another period of silence wherein 
Dorian again wondered at the girl's strange be- 
havior. Was he annoying her? Perhaps she did 
not care to have him paying his crude attentions 
to her; and yet — 

**Tell me about your dry farm,'' she said. 

''I've already plowed eighty acres," he in- 
formed her. ''The land is rich, and I expect to 
raise a big crop next year. I've quite a cosy 
house, up there, not far from the creek. The 
summer evenings are lovely and cool. I can't get 
mother to stay over night. I wish you would 
come and go with her, and stay a few days. ' ' 

"How could I stay away from home that long? 
The heavens would fall." 

"Well, that might help some. But, honestly, 
Carlia, you ought to get away from this grind a 
little. It's telling on you. Don't you ever get 
into the citv?" 

"Sometimes Saturday afternoons to deliver 
butter and eggs." 

"Well, some Saturday we'll go to see that 
moving picture show that's recently started in 
town. They say it's wonderful. I've never been. 
We'll go together. What do you saj'-?" 

"I would like to." 

"Let's move on. Meeting is out, and the folks 
are coming home." 

They walked slowly back to the houie. Mr. 


and Mrs. Duke soon arrived and told of the 
splendid meeting they had had. 

''Uncle Zed spoke," said Mr. Duke, ''and he 
did well, as usual. He's a regular Orson Pratt." 

"The people do not know it," added Dorian; 
"perhaps their children or their children's chil- 
dren will." 

"Well, what have you two been doing?" en- 
quired the father of Carlia. 

"We've just been taking a walk," answered 
Dorian. "Will it be alright if Carlia and I go 
to the new moving picture theatre in town some 

Neither parent made any objection. They 
were, in fact, glad to have this neighbor boy 
show some interest in their daughter. 

"Your mother was at meeting," said Mrs. 
Duke; "and she was asking about you." 

"Yes; I've neglected her all afternoon; so I 
must be off. Good night folks." 

Carlia went with him to the gate, slipping her 
arm into his and snuggling closely as if to get 
the protection of good comradship. The move- 
ment was not lost on Dorian, but he lingered only 
for a moment. 

"Goodnight, Carlia; remember, some Saturday." 

"I'll not forget. Goodnight" she looked fur- 
tively up and down the road, then sped back into 
the house. 

Dorian walked on in the darkening evening. 
A block Or so down the road he came on to an 


i t 

automobile. No oue in Greenstreet owned one 
of these machines as yet, and there were but few 
in the city. As Dorian approached, he saw -x 
young man working with the machinery under 
the lifted hood. 

''Hello/' greeted Dorian. 'Svhat's the trouble T' 

'^ Damned if I know. Been stalled here for an 
hour.'' The speaker straightened from his work. 
His hands were grimy, and the sweat was running 
down his red and angry face. He held tightly 
the stump of a cigarette between his lips. 

I'm sorry I can't help you," said Dorian, 
but I don't know the first thing about an auto- 

''Well, I thought I knew a lot, but this gets 
me." He swore again, as if to impress Dorian 
with the true condition of his feelings. Then he 
went at the machinery again with pliers and 
wrenches, after which he vigorously turned the 
crank. The engine started with a wheeze and 
then a roar. The driver leaped into the car and 
brought the racing engine to a smoother running. 
*'The cursed thing" he remarked, ''why couldn't 
it have done that an hour ago. 0, say, excuse 
me, have you just been at the house up the road?" 

"The Duke house? yes." 

"Is the old man — is Mr. Duke at home?" 

"Yes; he's at home." 

"Thank you." The car moved slowly up the 
road until it reached the Duke gate where it 
stopped; but only for a moment, for it turned and 


sped with increasing hurry along the road lead 
ing to the city. 

Dorian stood and watched it until its red light 
disappeared. He wondered why the stranger 
wanted to know why Mr. Duke was at home, then 
on learning that he was, why he turned about 
as if he had no business with him. 

Later, Dorian learned the reason. 


DORIAN was twenty-one years old, and his 
mother had planned a little party in honor 
of the event. The invited guests were 
Uncle Zed, Bishop Johnson and wife, the teacher 
of the district school, and Carlia Duke. These ar- 
rived during the dusk of the evening, all but Carlia. 
They lingered on the cool lawn under the colored 
glow of the Chinese lanterns, 

Mrs. Trent realized that it would be useless to 
make the party a surprise, for she had to have 
Dorian's help in hanging out the lanterns, and he 
would necessarily see the unusual activity in front 
room and kitchen. Moreover, Dorian, unlike Uncle 
Zed, had not lost track of his birthdays, and especi- 
ally this one which would make him a full-fledged 
citizen of these United States. 

The little party chatted on general topics for 
some time until Mrs. Trent, in big white apron, 
announced that supper was ready, and would they 
all come right in. Mrs. Trent always served her 
refreshments at the regular supper time and not 


near midnight, for she claimed that people of 
regular habits, which her guests were, are much 
better off by not having those habits broken into. 

'^Are we all here?'' she asked, scanning them 
as they passed in. ''AH but Carlia,'' she an- 
nounced. ''Where's Carlia?" 

No one knew. Someone proffered the explana- 
tion that she was usually late as she had so many 
chores to do, at which the Bishop's wife shook 
her head knowingly, but said nothing. 

"Well, she'll be along presently," said Mrs. 
Trent. "Sit down all of you. Bishop, will you 
ask the blessing?" 

The hostess, waitress, and cook all combined in 
the capable person of Mrs. Trent, sat at the table 
with her party. Everything which was to be 
served was on the table in plain sight, so that all 
could nicely guage their eating to various dishes. 
When all were well served and the eating was 
well under way, Mrs. Trent said: 

"Brothers and sisters, this is Dorian's birthday 
party. He has been a mighty good boy, and so — " 

"Mother," interrupted the young man. 

"Now, you never mind — you be still. Dorian is 
a good boy, and I want all of you to know it." 

"We all do, Sister Trent," said the Bishop; 
"and it is a good thing to sometimes tell a person 
of his worthiness to his face." 

"But if we say more, he'll be uncomfortable," 
remarked the mother, "so we had better change 
the subject. The crops are growing, the weather 


is fine, and the neighbors are all right. That dis- 
poses of the chief topics of conversation, and will 
give Uncle Zed a chance. He always has some- 
thing worth listening to, if not up his sleeve, then 
in his white old head. But do not hurry, Uncle 
Zed; get through with your supper/' 

The old man was a light eater, so he finished 
before the others. He looked smilingly about him, 
noting that those present were eager to listen. He 
took from his pocket a number of slips of paper 
and placed them on the table beside his plate. 
Then he began to talk, the others leisurely finishing 
their dessert. 

'^The other evening,'' he said, ''Dorian and I 
had a conversation which interested us very much, 
and I think it would interest all of us here. 1 
was telling him my experience in my search for 
God and the plan of salvation, and I promised 
him I would read to him some of the things I 
found. Here is a definition of God which did not 
help me very much." He picked up one of the 
slips of paper and read: '''God is the integrated 
harmony of all potentialities of good in every 
actual and possible rational agent.' What do you 
think of that?'' 

The listeners knitted their brows, but no one 
spoke. Uncle Zed continued: "Well, here is '\ 
little more. Perhaps this will clear it up: 'The 
greatest of selves, the ultimate Self of the uni- 
verse, is God My God is my deeper self and 

yours too. He is the self of the universe, and 



knows all about it By Diety we mean the all- 

controling conciousness of the universe, as well as 
the unfathomable^ all unknowable, and unknow- 
able abyss of being beyond'.'' 

Uncle Zed carefully folded his papers and placed 
them back in his pocket. He looked about him, 
but his friends appeared as if they had had a 
volley of Greek fired at "them. ''Well" he said, 
''why don't some of you say something?" 

"Please pass the pickles," responded Mrs. Trent, 

When the merriment had ceased, uncle Zed 
continued: "There is some truth in these defini- 
tions. God is all that which they try to express, 
and vastly more. The trouble is these men talk 
about the attributes of God, and confound these | 
with the being and personality of the Great Parent. 
I may describe the scent of the rose, but that does 
not define the rose itself. I cannot separate the 
rose from its color or form or odor, any more than 
I can divorce music from the instrument. These 
vague and incomplete definitions have had much to 
do with the unbelief in the world. Tom Paine 
wrote a book which he called the 'Age of Reason' 
on the premise that reason does away with God. 
Isn't that it, Dorian?" 

"All agnostic writers seem to think that there 
is no reason in religion, and at times they come j 
pretty near proving it too/' replied Dorian. 

"That is because they base their arguments on 
the religions of the world ; but the restored gospel 


®f Jesus Christ rests largely on reason. Why, I 
can prove, contrary to the generally accepted 
opinion, by reason alone that there must be a 

'*We shall be glad to hear it,'* said the school 
teacher. The eating was about over, and so they 
all sat and listened attentively. 

*'We do not need to quote a word of scripture,'' 
continued Uncle Zed. *'A11 we need to kno\r. is 
a little of the world about us, a little of the race 
and its history, and a little of the other worlds 
out in space, all of which is open to anybody who 
will seek it. The rest is simply a little connected 
thought. Reason tells me that there can be no 
limits to time or space or intelligence. Time al- 
ways has been, there can be no end to space, and 
inelligence cannot create itself. Now, with limit- 
less time and space and intelligence to work with, 
what have we? The human mind, being limited, 
cannot grasp the limitless; therefore, we must 
make arbitrary points of beginning and ending. 
Now, let us project our thought as far back into 
duration as we can — count the periods by any 
thinkable measurements, years, centuries, ages, 
aeons, anything you please that will help. Have 
we arrived at a point when there is no world, no 
life, no intelligence? Certainly not. Somewhere 
in space, all that we see here and now will be 
seen to exist. Go back from this point to a 
previous period, and then count back as far as 



you wish; there is yet time and space and intel- 

'* There is an eternal law of progress which 
holds good always and everywhere. It has been 
operating all through the ages of the past. Now, 
let us take one of these Intelligences away back 
in the far distance past and place him in the path 
of progress so that the eternal law of growth and 
advancement will operate on him. I care not 
whether you apply the result to Intelligences as 
individuals or as the race. Given time enough, 
this endless and eternal advancement must result in 
a state of perfection that those who attain to it 
may with truth and propriety be called Gods. 
Therefore, there must be a God, yes, many Gods 
living and reigning throughout the limitless re- 
gions of glorified space. 

**Here is corroborative evidence: I read in the 
Doctrine and Covenants, Section 88: 'All king- 
doms have a law given; and there are many king- 
doms; for there is no space in the which there is 
no kingdom; and there is no kingdom in which 
there is no space, either a greater or a lesser king- 
dom. And unto every kingdom is given a law; 
and unto every law there are certain bounds also 
and conditions.' 

** There is a hymn in our hymn book in which 
W. W. Phelps expresses this idea beautifully. 
Let me read it : 

* If you could hie to Kolob, 
In the twinkling of an eye, 


And then continue onward, 
With that same speed to fly, 

'Do you think that you could ever, 

Through all eternity, 
Find out the generation 

Where Gods began to be! 

'Or see the grand beginning 
Where space did not extend? 

Or view the last creation, 
Where Gods and matter end? 

' Methinks the Spirit whispers : 
No man has found ''pure space/' 

Nor seen the outside curtains, 
Where nothing has a place. 

'The works of God continue, 
And worlds and lives abound; 

Improvement and progression 
Have one eternal round. 

' There is on end to matter, 
There is no end to space, 

There is no end to spirit. 
There is no end to race. 

'There is no end to virtue, 
There is no end to might, 

There is no end to wisdom. 
There is no end to light. 

'There is no end to union. 
There is no end to youth, 

There is no end to priesthood, 
There is no end to truth. 


* There is no end to glory, 

There is no end to love, 
There is no end to being. 

Grim death reigns not above. ' 

''The Latter-day Saints have been adversely 
criticized for holding out such astounding hopes 
for the future of the human race; but let us 
reason a little more, beginning nearer home. What 
has the race accomplished, even within the short 
span of our own recollection? Man is fast con- 
quering the forces of nature about him, and mak- 
ing these forces to serve him. Now, we must 
remember that duration extends ahead of us in 
the same limitless way in which it reaches back. 
Give, then, the race today all the time necessary, 
what cannot it accomplish? Apply it again either 
to an individual or to the race, in time, some would 
attain to what we conceive of as perfection, and 
the term by which such beings are known to us is 
God. I can see no other logical conclusion.'' 

The chairs were now pushed back, and Mrs. 
Trent threw a cloth over the table just as it stood, 
explaining that she would not take the time from 
her company to devote to the dishes. She invited 
them into Dorian's little room, much to that 
young man's uneasiness. 

His mother had tidied the room, so it was pre- 
sentable. His picture, ^'Sunset in Marshland" 
had been lowered a little on the wall, and directly 
over it hung a photograph of Mildred Brown. To 
Dorian's questioning look, Mrs. Trent explained, 

DORIAN 101^ 

that Mrs. Brown had sent it just the other day. 
Dorian looked closely at the beautiful picture, 
and a strange feeling came over him. Had Mildred 
gone on in this eternal course of progress of 
which Uncle Zed had been speaking? Was she 
still away ahead of him? Would he ever reach 

On his study table were a number of books, 
birthday presents. One was from Uncle Zed's 
precious store, and one — What? He picked it up 
— '* David Copperfield. ' ' He opened the beautiful 
volume and read on the fly leaf: *'From Carlia, 
to make up a little for your loss." He remem- 
bered now that Carlia, some time before, had 
asked him what books were in the package which 
had gone down the canal at the time when he 
had pulled her out of the water. Carlia had not 
forgotten; and she was not here; the supper was 
over, and it was getting late. Why had she not 

The party broke up early, as it was a busy 
season with them all. Dorian walked home with 
Uncle Zed, then he had a mind to run over to Car- 
lia 's. He could not forget about her absence nor 
about the present she had sent. He had never 
read the story, and he would like to read it to 
Carlia. She had very little time, he realized, which 
was all the more reason for his making time to 
read it to her. 

As every country boy will, at every opportunity, 
so Dorian cut crosslots to his objective. He now 


leaped the fence, and struck off through the 
meadow up into the corn field. Mr. Duke had a 
big, fine field that season, the growing corn al- 
ready reaching to his shoulder. The night was 
dark, save for the twinkling stars in the clear 
sky; it was still, save for the soft rustling of the 
com in the breeze. 

Dorian caught sight of a light as of a lantern 
up by the ditch from which the water for irrigat- 
ing was turned into the rows of corn and potatoes. 
He stopped and listened. A tool grated in the 
gravelly soil. Mr. Duke was no doubt using his 
night turn at the water on his corn instead of 
turning it on the hay-land as was the custom. 
He would inquire of him about Carlia. 

As he approached the light, the scraping ceased, 
and he saw a dark figure dart into the shelter of 
the tall corn. When he reached the lantern, he 
found a hoe lying in the furrow where the water 
should have been running. No man irrigates with 
a hoe; that's a woman's tool. Ah, the secret was 
out! Carlia was lending' the water. That's why 
she was not at the party. 

He stood looking down into the shadows of the 
corn rows, but for the moment he could see or 
hear nothing. He had frightened her, and yet 
Carlia was not usually afraid. He began to 
whistle softly and to walk down into the corn. 
Then he called, not loudly, ''Carlia". 

There was no response. He quickened his 
steps. The figure ran to another shelter. He 


could see her now, and he called again, louder 
than before. She stopped, and then darted 
through the corn into the more open potatoe 
patch. Dorian followed. 

''Hello, Carlia,''' he said, ''what are you doing?'' 

The girl stood before him, bareheaded, with 
rough dress and heavy boots. She was panting 
as if with fright. When she caught a full sight 
of Dorian she gave a little cry, and when he came 
within reach, she grasped him by the arm. 

"Oh, is it you, Dorian?'' 

"Sure. Who else did you think it was? Why, 
you're all of a tremble. What are you afraid of?'' 

''I — I thought it was — was someone else. Oh, 
Dorian, I'm so glad it is you!" 

She stood close to him as if wishing to claim 
his protection. He instinctively placed his arm 
about her shoulders. "Why, you silly girl, the 
dark won't hurt you." 

"I'm not afraid of the dark. I'm afraid of— 
Oh, Dorian, don't let him hurt me!" There was 
a sob in her voice. 

"What are you talking about? I believe you're 
not well. Are your feet wet? Have you a 
fever?" He put his hand on her forehead, brush- 
ing back the dark, towsled hair. He took her 
plump, work-roughened hand in his bigger and 
equally rough one. "And this is why you were 
not to my party," he said. 

"Yes; I hated to miss it, but father's rheumatism 
was so bad that he could not come out. So it 


was up to me. We havn't any too much water 
this summer. I'd better turn the water down 
another row; it's flooding the com." 

They went to the lantern on the ditch bank. 
Dorian picked up the hoe and made the proper 
adjustment of the water flow. '^How long will 
it take for the water to reach the bottom of the 
row?" he asked. 

''About fifteen minutes." 

''And how many rows remain?" 

Carlia counted. "Twelve," she said. ' 

"All right. This is a small stream and will 
only allow for three rows at a time. Three into 
twelve is four, and four times fifteen is sixty. 
It is now half past ten. Well get through by 
twelve o'clock easy." 

"You'd better go home. I'm all right now. 
I'm not afraid." 

"I said we will get home. Sit down here on 
the bank. Are you cold?" He took off his 
coat and placed it about her shoulders. She 
made no objections, though in truth she was not 

"Tell me about the party," she said. 

He told her who were there, and how they had 
missed her. 

"And did Uncle Zed preach?" 

"Preach? 0, yes, he talked mighty fine. I 
wish I could tell you what he said." 

"What was it about?" 

"About God," he answered reverently. 


''Try to tell me, Dorian. I need to know. Pm 
such a dunce.'' 

Dorian repeated in his way Uncle Zed's argu- 
ment, and he succeeded fairly well in his presen- 
tation of the subject. The still night under the 
shining stars added an impressive setting to the 
telling, and the girl close by his side drank in 
hungrily every word. When the water reached 
the end of the rows, it was turned into others, 
until all were irrigated. When that was ac- 
complished, Dorian's watch showed half past 
eleven. He picked up the lantern and the hoe, 
and they walked back to the house. 

''The party was quite complete, after all," he 
said at the door. "I've enjoyed this little after- 
affair as much as I did the party." 

"I'm glad," she whispered. 

"And it was wonderfully good of you to give 
me that present." 

I'm glad," she repeated. 

Do you know what I was thinking about when 
I opened the book and saw it was from you?" 

"No; what?" 

"Why, I thought, we'll read this book to- 
gether, you and I." 

"Wouldn't that be fine!" 

"We can't do that now, of course; but after 
a while when we get more time. I'll not read it 
until then.... Well, you're tired. Go to bed 
Good night, Carlia." 



Goodnight, Dorian, and thank you for helping 

They stood close together, she on the step above 
him. The lamp, placed on the kitchen table for 
her use, threw its light against the glass door 
which formed a background for the girl's rough- 
ened hair, soiled and sweat-stained face, and red, 
smiling lips. 

''Goodnight," he said again; and then he leaned 
forward and kissed her. 


THAT goodnight 's kiss should have brought 
Dorian back to Carlia sooner than it did; 
but it was nearly a month before he saw 
her again. The fact that it was the busiest time 
of the year was surely no adaquate excuse for 
this neglect. Harvest was on again, and the dry- 
farm called for much of his attention. Dorian 
prospered, and he had no time to devote to the 
girls, so he thought, and so he said, when occasion 
demanded expression. 

One evening while driving through the city and 
seeing the lights of the moving picture theatre, 
he was reminded of his promise to Carlia. His 
conscience pricked him just a little, so the very 
next evening he drove up to Farmer Duke's. See- 
ing no one choring about, he went into the house 
and inquired after Carlia. Mrs. Duke told him that 
Carlia had gone to the city that afternoon. She 
was expected back any minute, but one could 
never tell, lately, when she would get home. 
Since this Mr. Lamont had taken her to the 


oity a number of times, she had been late in 
getting home. 

''Mr. Lamont?'' he inquired. 

'*Yes; havn't you met him? Don't you know 

^'No; who is he?'' 

*' Dorian, I don't know. Father seems to think 
he's all right, but I don't like him. Oh, Dorian, 
why don't you come around oftener?" 

Mrs. Duke sank into a chair and wiped away 
the tears from her eyes with the comer of her 
apron. Dorian experienced a strange sinking of 
the heart. Again he asked who this Mr. Lamont 

''He's a salesman of some kind, so he says. He 
drives about in one of those automobiles. Surely, 
you have seen him — a fine-looking fellow with 
nice manners and all that, but — ^" 

''And does Carlia go out with him?" 

"He has taken her out riding a number of 
times. He meets her in the city sometimes. I 
don't know what to make of it, Dorian. I'm 

Dorian seemed unable to say anything which 
would calm the mother's fears. That Carlia 
should be keeping company with someone other 
than himself, had never accured to him. And yet, 
why not? she was aid enough to accept atten- 
tion from young men. He had certainly neglect- 
ed her, a9 the mother had implied. The girl had 
sueh few opportunities for going out, why should 


she not accept such as came to her. But this 
stranger, this outsider! Dorian soon took his de- 

He went home, unhitched, and put up his horse ; 
but instead of going into the house, he walked 
down to the post office. He found nothing in 
his box. He felt better in the open, so he con- 
tinued to walk. He had told his mother he was 
going to the city, so he might as well walk that 
way. Soon the lights gleamed through the com- 
ing darkness. He went on with his confused 
thoughts, on into the city and to the moving 
picture show. He bought a ticket and an at- 
tendant led him stumbling in the dark room to 
a seat. 

It was the first time he had been there. He 
and Carlia were going together. It was quite 
wonderful to the young man to see the actors 
moving about lifelike on the white screen. The/ 
story contained a number of love-making scenes, 
which, had they been enacted in real life, in 
public as this was, they would certainly have been 
stopped by the police. Then there was a comic 
picture wherein a young fellow was playing pranks 
on an old man. The presentation could hardly 
be said to teach respect for old age, but the 
audience laughed uproariously at it. 

When the picture closed and the lights went 
on, Dorian turned about to leave, and there stood 
Carlia. A young man was assisting her into her 
light wraps. She saw him, so there was no 


escape, and they spoke to each other. Carlia 
introduced her escort, Mr. Lamont. 

*'61ad to know you,*' said Mr. Lamont, in a 
hearty way. ''I've known of you through Miss 
Duke. Going home nowT' 
''Yes," said Dorian. 

"No; I'm walking.'' 

"Then you'll ride with us. Plenty of room. 
Glad to have you." 
"Thank you, I—" 
"Yes, come," urged Carlia. 
Dorian hesitated. He tried to carry an inde- 
pendent manner, but Mr. Lamont linked his arm 
sociably with Dorian's as he said: 

"Of course you'll ride home with us; but first 
we'll have a little ice cream." 

"No thanks," Dorian managed to say. What 
more did this fellow want of him? 

However, as Dorian could give no good reason why 
he should not ride home with them, he found no 
way of refusing to accompany them to a nearby 
ice-cream parlor. Mr. Lamont gave the order, 
and was very attentive to Carlia and Dorian. It 
was he who kept the flow of conversation going. 
The other two, plainly, were not adept at this. 
"What did you think of the show, Mr. Trent?' 
"The moving pictures are wonderful, but ] 
did not like the story very much." 

"It was rotten," exclaimed the other in seemins 
disgust. I did not know what was on, or I shoulc 


not have gone. Last week they had a fine picture, 

a regular classic. Did you see it? 
''No; in fact, this is my first visit.'' 
''Oh, indeed. This is Miss Duke's second visit 

only. ' ' 

Under the bright lights Carlia showed rouge 
on her cheeks, something Dorian had never seen 
on her before. Her lips seemed redder than ever, 
and he eyes shone with a bright luster. Mr. La- 
mont led them to his automobile, and then Dorian 
remembered the night when this same young man 
with the same automobile had stopped near 
Carlia 's home. Carlia seated herself with the 
driver, while Dorian took the back seat. They 
were soon speeding along the road which led to 
Greenstreet. The cool night air fanned Dorian's 
hot face. Conversation ceased. Even Carlia and 
the driver were silent. The moon peeped over 
the eastern hills. The country-side was silent. 
Dorian thought of the strange events of the even- 
ing. This Mr. Lamont had not only captured 
Carlia but Dorian also. "If I were out with a 
girl," reasoned Dorian,^ "I certainly wouldn't 
want a third person along if I could help it." 
Why should this man be so eager to have his 
company? Dorian did not understand, not then. 

In a short time they drove up to Carlia 's gate, 
and she and Dorian alighted. The driver did not 
get out. The machine purred as if impatient to 
be off again and the^ lamps threw their streams 
of light along the road. 


''Well, I shall have to be getting back/' said 
Mr. Lamont. ''Goodnight, Miss Duke. Thanks 
for your company. Goodnight, Mr. Trent; sure 
glad to have met you.'' 

The machine glided into the well-worn road and 
was off. The two stood looking at it for a mo- 
ment. Then Carlia moved toward the house. 

"Come in" she said. 

He mechanically followed. He might as well 
act the fool to the end of the chapter, he thought. 
It was eleven by the parlor clock, but the mother 
seemed greatly relieved when she saw Dorian with 
her daughter. Carlia threw off her wraps. She 
appeared ill at ease. Her gaiety was forced. She 
seemed to be acting a part., but she was doing 
it poorly, Dorian was not only ill at ease himself, 
but he was bewildered. He seated himself on the 
sofa. Carlia took a chair on the other side of 
the room and gazed out of the window into the 

"Carlia, why did you — why do you," he stam- 

"Why shouldn't I?" she replied, somewhat de- 
fiantly as if she understood his unfinished question. 

"You know you should not. It's wrong. Who 
is he anyway?" 

"He at least thinks of me and wants to show 
me a good time, and that's more than anybody 
else does." 



'^Well, that's the truth.'' She arose, walked 
to the table in the middle of the room and stood 
challengingly before him. ''Who are you to find 
fault? What have you done to—" 

''111 admit I've done very little; but you, your- 

"Never mind me. What do you care for met 
What does anybody careT' 

"Your mother, at least." 

"Yes, mother; poor, dear mother Oh, my 

God, I can't stand it, I can't stand it!" With 
a sob she broke and sank dovsrn by the table, hid- 
ing her face in her arms. Dorian arose to go t(v 
her. The door opened, and the mother appeared. 

"What is it, Carlia," she asked in alarm. 

The girl raised her head, swiftly dashed the 
tears from her eyes, then with a sad effort to 
smile, said: 

"Nothing, mother, nothing at all. I'm going 
to bed. Where's father?" 

"He was called out to Uncle Zed's who is sick. 
Dorian's mother is there with him too, I under- 
stand. ' ' 

"Then I'd better go for her," said the young 
man. "I'll say goodnight. Poor Uncle Zed; he 
hasn't been well lately. Goodnight Sister Duke, 
goodnight Carlia." 

Carlia stood in the doorway leading to the 
stairs. "Goodnight, Dorian," she said. "Forgive 
me for being so rude." 


He stepped toward her, but she motioned him 
back, and than ran up the carpetless stairs to her 
room. Dorian went out in the night. With a 
heavy heart he hurried down the road in the 
direction of Uncle Zed's home. 


UNCLE ZED'S illness did not prove fatal, 
though it was serious enough. In a few- 
days he was up and about again, slowly, 
quietly providing for his simple needs. However, 
it was plainly evident that he had nearly come to 
the end of his earthly pilgrimage. 

After the most pressing fall work had been 
disposed of, Dorian spent as much of his spare 
time as possible with the old man, who seemed 
to like the company of the younger man better 
than anyone else in the village; and Dorian, for 
his part^ took delight in visiting with him, in 
helping him with the heaviest of his not heavy 
chores. Especially, was it pleasant during the 
lengthening evening with a small fire and the 
lamp newly trimmed. Uncle Zed reclined in his 
easy chair, while Dorian sat by the table with 
books and papers. Their conversations ranged 
from flower gardens to dry-farms, and from agnos- 
ticism to the highest degrees of the celestial glory. 


And how they both reveled in books and their 
contents on the ocasions when they were alone and 
unhampered by the unsympathetic minds of others. 

''As you see, Dorian/' said Uncle Zed on one 
such Sunday evening, ''my collection of books is 
not large, but they are such that I can read and 
read again/' 

"Where is your 'Drummond's Natural LawT' 
asked Dorian. 

Uncle Zed looked about. ' ^ I was reading it this 
morning. There it is on the window." Dorian 
fetched him the volume. 
I "When I read Drummond's work,' continued 

the old man, "I feel keener than ever my lack of 
scientific knowledge. I have always had a desire 
to delve into nature's laws through the doors of 
botany, zoology, mineralogy, chemistry, and all the 
other sciences. I have obtained a smattering only 
through my reading. I realize that the great ocean 
of truth is yet before me who am now an old 
man and can never hope in this life to explore 
much further." 

"But how is it, Uncle Zed," enquired Dorian, 
"that so many scientists have such little faith?" 

"'The letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life,' 
The Spirit has taught us Dorian, that this world 
is God's world, and that the laws which govern 
here and now are the same eternal laws which 
have always been in operation ; that we have come 
to this world of element to get in touch with 
earthly forms of matter, and become acquainted 


with the laws which govern them. Dmmmond has 
attempted to prove that the laws which prevail in 
the temporal world about us also hold good in the 
spiritual world, and he has made out a very good 
case, I think ; but neither Drummond nor anybody ' 
else not endowed by the gift of the Holy Ghost, 
can reach the simple ultimate truth. That's why 
I have been looking for some young man in the 
Church who could and would make it his life's 
mission and work to learn the truths of science 
and harmonize them where necessary with the 
revealed truth — in fact, to complete what Henry 
Drummond has so well begun.'' The old man 
paused, then looking steadily at Dorian, said : 
^* That's what I expect you to do." 
^'I? Oh, do you think I could?" 
'^Yes; it would not be easy, but with your apt- 
ness and your trend of mind, and your ability to 
study long and hard, you could, with the assis- 
tance of the Spirit of God, accomplish wonders 
by the time you are as old as I." 

The young man mildly protested, although the 
vision of what might be thrilled his being, 

** Don't forget what I am telling you, Dorian. 
Think and pray and dream about it for a time, 
and the Lord will open the way. Now then, we 
are to discuss some of Drummond 's problems, 
were we not?" 

**Yes; I shall be glad to. Are you comfortable? 
Shall I move your pillow?" 

*'I'm resting very easily, thank you. Just hand 


me the book. Dnimmond's chapter on Biogenesis 
interests me very much. I cannot talk very scien- 
tifjfically, Dorian, on these things, but I hope to 
talk intelligently and from the large vievi^point of 
the gospel. Here is a paragraph from my book 
which I have marked and called *The Wall Be- 
tween.' I'm sure you will remember it. Let us 
read it again: 

'' 'Let us first place,'' he read from the book, 
'vividly in our imagination the picture of the two 
great Kingdoms of Nature, the inorganic and the 
organic, as these now stand in the light of the 
Law of Biogenesis. What essentially is involved 
in saying that there is no Spontaneous Genera- 
tion of Life? It is meant that the passage from 
the mineral world is hermetically sealed on the 
mineral side. This inorganic world is staked off 
from the living world by barriers which have never 
yet been crossed from within. No change of 
substance, no modification of invironment, no 
chemistry, no electricity, nor any form of energy, 
nor any evolution can endow any single atom of 
the mineral world with the attribute of life. Only 
by bending down into this dead world of some 
living form can these dead atoms be gifted with the 
properties af vitality, without this preliminary 
contact with life they remain fixed in the inorganic 
sphere forever. It is a very mysterious Law 
which guards in this way the portals of the living 
world. And if there is one thing in Nature more 
worth pondering for its strangeness it is the spec- 


tacle of this vast helpless world of the dead cut 
off from the living by the law of Biogenesis and 
denied forever the possibility of resurrection 
within itself. So very strange a thing, indeed, is 
this broad line in Nature, that Science has long 
sought to obliterate it. Biogenesis stands in the 
way of some forms of Evolution with such stern 
persistency that the assaults upon this law for 
number and thoroughness have been unparalled. 
But, as we have seen, it has stood tlie test. Nature, 
to the modern eye, stands broken in two. The 
physical Laws may explain the inorganic world; 
the biological laws may acount for inorganic. 
But of the point where they meet, of that living 
borderland between the dead and the living, 
Science is silent. It is as if God had placed every- 
thing in earth and in heaven in the hands of 
Nature, but reserved a point at the genesis of Life 
for His direct appearing.' 

''Drummond goes on to prove by analogy that 
the same law which makes such a separation be- 
tween the higher and the lov.'-er in the natural 
world holds good in the spiritual realm, and he 
quotes such passages as this to substantiate his 
argument: ^Except a man is born again, he can- 
not enter the kingdom of Qod\ Man must be 
born from above. 'The passage from the natural 
world to the spiritual world is hermetically sealed 
on the natual side.' that is, man cannot by any 
means make his own unaided way from the lower 
world to the higher. 'No mental energy, no evo- 


lution, no moral effort, no evolution of character, 
no progress of civilization' can alone lift life from 
the lower to the higher. Further, the lower can 
know very little about the higher, for 'the natural 
man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of 
God; for they are foolishness to him; neither can 
he know them, because they are spiritually dis- 
cerned'. All of which means, I take it, that the 
higher must reach down to the lower and lift it 
up. Advancement in any line of progress is made 
possible by some directing power either seen or 
unseen. A man cannot simply grow better and 
better until in his own right he enters the king- 
dom of God'.'' 

*'But, Uncle Zed, are we not taught that we 
must work out our own salvation?" asked Dorian. 
That is also scriptural." 

Yes; but wait; I shall come to that later. Let 
us go on with our reasoning and see how this law 
which Drummond points out — how it fits into the 
larger scheme of things as revealed to us Latter- 
day Saints. You remember some time ago in our 
talk on the law of eternal progress we established 
the truth that there always have been intelligences 
evolving from lower to higher life, which in the 
eternity of the past would inevitably lead to the 
perfection of Gods. This is plainly taught in 
Joseph Smith's statement that God was once a 
man like us, perhaps on an earth like this, work- 
ing out His glorious destiny. He, then, has gone 
on before into higher worlds, gaining wisdom, 


power, and glory. Now, there is another law of 
the universe that no advancing man can live to 
himself alone. No man can grow by taking selfish 
thought to the process. He grows by the exer- 
cise of his faculties and powers for the benefit of 
others. Dorian, hand me the 'Pearl of Great 

Dorian found the book and handed it to the old 
man, who, finding the passage he wanted, con- 
tinued: ** Listen to this remarkable statement by 
the Lord: 'For behold, this is my work and my 
glory — to bring to pass the immortality and eternal 
life of man.' Just think what that means." 

''What does it mean?" 

"It means, my boy, that the way of progress is 
the way of unselfish labor. 'This is my work/ 
says the Lord, to labor for those who are yet on 
the lower rungs of the ladder, to institute laws 
whereby those below may climb up higher; (note 
I used the word climb, not float); to use His 
greater experience, knowledge, and power for 
others; to pass down to those in lower or primary 
stages that which they cannot get by self-effort 
alone. Let me say this in all reverence, they who 
attain to All Things do not greedily and selfishly 
cling to it, but pass it on to others. 'As one lamp 
lights another nor grows less, So kindliness en- 
kindleth kindliness.' Yes; through great stress 
and sacrifice, they may do this, as witnessed in 
what our Father has done by endowing His Be-, 
loved Son with eternal life, and then giving Him 


to us. That Son was the * Prince of Life.' He 
was the Resurrection and the life.' He brought 
Life from the higher kingdom to a lower, its 
natural course through the ages. That is the only 
way through which it can come. And herein, to 
my humble way of thinking is the great error 
into which the modern evolutionist has fallen. He 
reasons that higher forms evolve from the initial 
and unaided movements of the lower. That is as 
impossible as that a man can lift himself to the 
skies by his boot-straps.'' 

Dorian smiled at the illustration. 

*'Now, my boy, I want to make an application 
of these divine truths to us here and now. I'm 
not going to live here much longer." 

'^ Uncle Zed!" 

'*Now, wait; it's a good thing that you nor any- 
body else can prevent me from passing on. I've 
wanted to live long enough to get rid of the fear 
of death. I have reached that point now, and so 
I am ready at any time, thank the Lord." 

Uncle Zed was beautiful to look upon in the 
clear whiteness of his person and the peaceful 
condition of his spirit. The young listener was 
deeply impressed by what he was hearing. (He 
never forgot that particular Sunday afternoon). 

''You asked me about working out our own sal- 
vation," continued Uncle Zed. ''Let me answet^ 
you on that. There are three principles in the 
law of progress, all of them important: First, 

DOlilAN 125 

there must be an exercise of the will by the can- 
didate for progression. He must be willing to ad- 
vance and have a desire to act for himself. That 
is the principle of free agency. Second, he must 
be willing to receive help from a higher source; 
that is, he must place himself in a condition to 
receive life and light from the source of life and 
light. Third, he must be unselfish, willing, eager 
to share all good with others. The lack of any of 
these will prove a serious hinderance. We see 
this everywhere in the world. 

''Coming back now to the application I men- 
tioned. If it is God's work and glory to labor 
for those below Him, why should not we, His sons 
and daughters, follow His example as far as possi- 
ble in our sphere of action? If we are ever to be- 
come like Him we must follow in His steps and do 
the things which He has done. Our work, also 
must be to help along the road to salvation those 
who are lower down, those who are more ignorant 
and are weaker than we.'' 

''Which, Uncle Zed, you have been doing all 
your life." 

"Just trying a little, just a little." 

"And this will be as it already has been, your 
glory. I see that plainly." 

"Why shoudn't it be everybody's work and 
glory? What a beautiful world this would be if 
this were the case!" 

"Yes, truly." 



''And see, Dorian, how this principle ties toge- 
ther the race from the beginning to the end, com- 
paratively speaking. Yes, in this way will me}i 
and families and races and worlds be linked to- 
gether in chains of love, which cannot be broken, 
worlds without end.'' 

The old man's voice became sweet and low. 
Then there was silence for a few minutes. The 
clock struck ten. 

''I must be going," said Dorian. ''I am keep- 
ing you out of bed.'' 

''You'll come again?" 

"Oh, yes." 

"Come soon, my boy. I have so much to tell 
you. I can talk so freely to you, something I 
cannot do to all who come here, bless their hearts. 
But you, my boy — " 

He reached out his hand, and Dorian took it 
lovingly. There were tears in the old man's eyes. 

"I'll not forget you," said Dorian, "I'll come 
soon and often." 

"Then, good night." 

"Good night," the other replied from the door 
as he stepped out into the night. The cool breeze 
swept over meadow and field. The world was open 
and big, and the young man's heart expanded to 
it. What a comfort to feel that the Power which 
rules the world and all the affairs of men is un- 
failing in its operations! What a joy to realize 
that he had a loving Father to whom he could 


go for aid! And then also, what a tremendous 
responsibility was on him because of the knowl- 
edge he already had and because of his God-given 
agency to act for himself. Surely, he would need 
light from on High to help him to choose the 
right ! 
Surely, he would. 


AT the coming of winter, Uncle Zed was bed- 
fast. He was failing rapidly. Neighbors 
helped him. Dorian remained with him as 
much as he could. The bond which had existed 
between these two grew stronger as the time of 
separation became nearer. The dying man was 
clear-minded, and he suffered very little pain. He 
seemed completely happy of he could have Dorian 
sitting by him and they could talk together. And 
these were wonderful days to the young man, days 
never to be forgotten. 

Outside, the air was cold with gusts of wind and 
lowering clouds. Inside, the room was cosy and 
warm. A few of the old man's hardiest flowers 
were still in pots on the table where the failing 
eyes could see them. That evening Mrs. Trent had 
tidied up the room and had left Dorian to spend 
the night with the sick man. The tea-kettle hummed 
softly on the stove. The shaded lamp was turned 
down low. 


^'Yes, Uncle Zed.'^ 

**Turn up the lamp a little. It's too dark in 

'* Doesn't the light hurt your eyes!" 

**No; besides I want you to get me some papers 
out of that drawer in my desk." 

Dorian fetched a large bundle of clippings and 
papers and asked if they were what he wanted. 

''Not all of them just now; but take from the 
pile the few on top. I want you to read them 
to me. They are a few selections which I have 
culled and which have a bearing on the things 
we have lately been talking about." 

The first note which Dorian read was as fol- 
lows. '''The keys of the holy priesthood unlock 
the door of knowledge to let you look into the 
palace of truth'." 

"That's by Brigham Young. You did not know 
that he was a poet as well as a prophet," com- 
mented the old man. "The next one is from him 

" 'There never was a time when there were not 
Gods and worlds, and when men were not passing 
through the same ordeals that we are now passing 
through. That course has been from all eternity 
and it is and will be to all eternity'." 

"Now you know, Dorian, where I get my in- 
spiration from. Read the next, also from Presi- 
dent Young." 

" 'The idea that the religion of Christ is one 
thing, and science is another, is a mistaken idea, 


for there is no true science without religion. The 
fountain of knowledge dwells with God, and He 
dispenses it to His children as He pleases, and as 
they are prepared to receive it; consequently, it 
swallows up and circumscribes air." 

''Take these, Dorian; have them with you as 
inspirational mottoes for your life's work. Go on, 
there are a few more.'' 

Dorian read again: '' 'The region of true re- 
ligion and the region of a completer science are 
one.' — Oliver Lodge." 

"You see one of the foremost scientists of the 
day agrees with Brigham Young," said Uncle 
Zed. "I think the next one corroborates some of 
our doctrine also." 

Dorian read: "'We do not indeed remember 
our past, we are not aware of our future, but in 
common with everything else we must have had 
a past and must be going to have a future.' — 
Oliver Lodge." 

Again he read: " 'We must dare to extend the 
thought of growth and progress and development 
even up to the height of all that we can realize 
of the Supreme Being — In some part of the uni- 
verse perhaps already the ideal conception has 
been attained; and the region of such attainment 
— the full blaze of self-conscious Diety — is too 
bright for mortal eyes^ is utterly beyond our 
highest thoughts.' — Oliver Lodge." 

Uncle Zed held out his hand and smiled. 
"There," he said in a whisper, "is a hesitating 


suggestion of the truth which we boldly pro- 
claim. ' ' 

''Now you are tired, Uncle Zed/' said Dorian. 
''I had best not read more.'' 

''Just one— the next one." 

Dorian complied: 

" 'There are more lives 3^et, there are more worlds 

For the way climbs up to the eldest sun. 
Where the white ones go to their mystic mating. 

And the holy will is done. 
I'll find you there where our love life heightens — 

Where the door of the wonder again unbars, 
Where the old love lures and the old fire whitens, 

In the stars behind the stars'." 

Uncle Zed lay peacefully on his pillow, a wist- 
ful look on his face. The room became still again, 
and the clock ticked away the time. Dorian 
folded up the papers which he had been told to 
keep and put them in his pocket. The rest of the 
package he returned to the drawer. He lowered 
the lamp again. Then he sat down and watched. 
It seemed it would not be long for the end. 


"Yes, Uncle Zed, can I do anything for you?" 

"No" — barely above a whisper — "nothing else 
matters — you're a good boy — God bless you." 

The dying man lay very still. As Dorian looked 
at the face of his friend it seemed that the mor- 
tal flesh had become waxen white so that the im- 
mortal spirit shone unhindered through it. The 
young man's heart was deeply sorrowful, but it 


was a sanctified sorrow. Twice before had death 
come near to him. He had hardly realized that of 
his father's and he was not present when Mildred 
had passed away; but here he was again with 
death, and alone. It seemed strange that he was 
not terrified, but he was not — everything seemed 
so calm, peaceful, and even beautiful in its serene 

Dorian arose, went softly to the window and 
looked out. The wind had quieted, and the snow 
was falling slowly, steadily in big white flakes. 
When Dorian again went back to the bedside and 
looked on the stilled face of his friend, he gave 
a little start. He looked again closely, listening, 
and feeling of the cold hands. Uncle Zed was 

The Greenstreet meeting house was filled to 
overflowing at the funeral. Uncle Zed had gone 
about all his days in the village doing good. All 
could tell of some kind deed he had done, with 
the admonition that it should not be talked about. 
He always seemed humiliated when anyone spoke 
of these things in his hearing; but now, surely, 
there could be no objection to letting his good 
deeds shine before men. 

Uncle Zed had left with the Bishop a written 
statement, not in the form of a will, wherein he 
told what disposition was to be made of his 
simple belongings. The house, with its few well 
tilled acres, was to go to the ward for the use 
of any worthy poor whom the Bishop might de- 


signate. Everything in the house should be at 
the disposal of Dorian Trent. The books, especi- 
ally, should belong to him '*to have and to hold 
and to study/' Such books which Dorian did not 
wish to keep were to be given to the ward 
Mutual Improvement Library. This information 
the Bishop publicly imparted on the day of the 

** These are the times, ^' said the Bishop, *'when 
the truth comes forcibly to us all that nothing 
in this world matters much or counts for much 
in the end but good deeds, kind words, and un- 
selfish service to others. All else is now dross 

The mantle of Brother Zed seems to have fallen 
on Dorian Trent. May he wear it faithfully and 

A few days after the funeral Dorian and his 
mother went to Uncle Zed's vacant home. Mrs. 
Trent examined the furnishings, while Dorian 
looked over the books. 

''Is there anything here you want, mother? he 

''No; I think not; better leave everything, 
which isn't much, for those who are to live here. 
What about the books?' 

"I'm going to take most of them home, for I 
am sure Uncle Zed would not want them to fall 
into unappreciating hands; but there's no hurry 
about that. We'll just leave everything as it is for 
a few days." 

The next evening Dorian returned to look over 


again his newly-acquired treasures. The ground 
was covered with snow and the night was cold. 
He thought he might as well spend the evening, 
and be comfortable, so he made a fire in the stove. 
On the small home-made desk which stood in 
the best-lighted corner, near to the student's hand 
were his well-worn Bible, his Book of Mormon, 
and Doctrine and Covenants. He opened the 
drawers and found them filled with papers and 
clippings, covering, as Dorian learned, a long 
period of search and collecting. He opened again 
the package which he had out the evening of 
Uncle Zed's death, and looked over some of the 
papers. These, evidently, had been selected for 
Dorian's special benefit, and so he settled himself 
comfortably to read them. The very first paper 
was in the old man's own hand, and was a dis- 
sertation on ''Faith." and read thus: ''Some 
people say that they can believe only what they 
can perceive with the senses. Let us see: The 
sun rises, we say. Does it? The earth is still. 
Is it? We hear music, we see beauty. Does the 
ear hear or the eye see? "We burn our fingers. 
Is the pain in our fingers? I cut the nerves lead- 
ing from the brain to these various organs, and 
then I neither hear nor see nor feel." 

"How can God keep in touch with us?" was 
answered thus: "A ray of light coming through 
space from a star millions of miles away will act 
on a photographic plate, will eat into its sensi- 
tive surface and imprint the image of the star. 


This we know, and yet we doubt if God can keep 
in touch with us and answer our prayers." 

Many people wondered why a man like Uncle 
Zed was content to live in the country. The 
answer seemed to be found in a number of slips: 

''How peaceful comes the Sabbath, doubly blessed, 
In giving hope to faith, to labor rest. 
Most peaceful here: — no city's noise obtains, 
And God seems reverenced more where silence 

Once Dorian had been called a ''Clod hopper." 
As he read the following, he wondered whether 
or not Uncle Zed had not also been so designated, 
and had written this in reply: 

"Mother Earth, why should not I love you? 
Why should not I get close to you? Why should 
I plan to live always in the clouds above you, 
gazing at other far-distant worlds, and neglecting 
you? Why did I, with others, shout with joy 
when I learned that I was coming here from the 
world of spirits? I answer, because I knew that 
'spirit and element inseparately connected re- 
ceiveth a fulness of joy.' I was then to get in 
touch with 'element' as I had been with 'spirit.' 
This world which I see with my natural eyes is 
the 'natural' part of Mother Eearth, even as the 
flesh and bones and blood of my body is the ele- 
ment of myself, to be inseparately connected with 
my spirit and to the end that I might receive a 
fullness of joy. The earth and all things on it 


known by the term nature is what I came here 
to know. Nature, wild or tamed, is my school- 
room — the earth with its hUls and valleys and 
plains, with its clouds and rain, with its rivers 
and lakes and oceans, with its trees and fruits and 
flowers, its life — about all these I must learn what 
I can at first hand. Especially, should I learn 
of the growing things which clothe the earth with 
beauty and furnish sustenance to life. Some day 
I hope the Lord will give me a small part of this 
earth, when it is glorified. Ah, then, what a 
garden shall I have!'' 

No one in Greenstreet had ever known Uncle 
Zed as a married man. His wife had died long 
ago, and he seldom spoke of her. Dorian had 
wondered whether he had ever been a young man, 
with a young man's thoughts and feelings; but 
here was evidence which dispelled any doubt. On 
a slip of paper, somewhat yellow with' age, were 
the following lines, written in Uncle Zed's best 
hand : 

^*In the enchanted air of spring, 
I hear all Nature's voices sing, 
*I love you'. 

By bursting buds, by sprouting grass, 
I hear the bees hum as I pass, 
'I love you'. 

The waking earth, the sunny sky 
Are whispering the same as I, 
*I love you'. 


The song of birds in sweetest notes 
Comes from their bursting hearts and throats, 
'I love yon'/' 

^*0h. Uncle Zed!'' said Dorian, half aloud, ''who 
would have thought it!" 

Near the top of the pile of manuscript Dorian 
found an envelope with ''To Dorian Trent," writ- 
ten on it. He opened it with keen interest and 
found that it was a somewhat newly written paper 
and dealt with a subject they had discussed in 
connection with the chapter on Death in Drum- 
mond's book. Uncle Zed had begun his epistle by 
addressing it, "Dear Dorian" and then continued 
as follows : 

"You remember that some time ago we talked 
on the subject of sin and death. Since then I 
have had some further thought on the subject 
which I will here jot down for you. You asked 
me, you remember, what sin is, and I tried to 
explain. Here is another definition: Man belongs 
to an order of beings whose goal is perfection. 
The way to that perfection is long and hard, 
narrow and straight. Any deviation from that 
path is sin. God, our Father, has reached the 
goal. He has told us how we may follow Him, 
He has pointed out the way by teaching us the 
law of progress which led Him to His exalted 
state. Sin lies in not heeding that law, but in fol- 
lowing laws of our own making. The Lord says 
this in the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 88 : 
'That which breaketh a law, and abideth not by 

138 ^ DORIAN 

law, but seeketh to become a law unto itself, and 
willeth to abide in sin, and altogether abideth in 
sin, cannot be sanctified by law, neither by mercy, 
justice, nor judgement. Therefore, they must 
remain filthy still. ' 

''Now, keeping in mind that sin is the straying 
from the one straight, progressive path, let us 
consider this expression: 'The wages of sin is 
death'. This leads us to the question: what is 
death? Do you remember what Drummond says? 
He first explains in a most interesting way what 
life is, using the scientist's phrasing. A human 
being, for instance, is in direct contact with all 
about him — earth, air, sun, other human beings, etc. 
In biological language he is said to be 'in cor- 
respondence with his environment/ and by virtue 
of this correspondence is said to be alive. To live, 
a human being must continue to adjust himself 
to his environment. When he fails to do this, he 
dies. Thus we have also a definition of death. 
'Dying is that breakdown in an organization which 
throws it out of correspondence with some neces- 
sary part of the environment.' 

"Of course, these reasonings and deductions per- 
tain to what we term he physical death; but 
Drummond claims that the same law holds good 
in the spiritual world. Modern revelation seems 
to agree with him. We have an enlightening 
definition of death in the following quotation from 
the Doctrine and Covenants, Secton 29: 'Where- 
fore I the Lord God caused that he (Adam) should 


be cast out from the Garden of Eden, from my 
presence, because of his transgression, wherein he 
became spiritually dead, which is the first death, 
even that same death, which is the last death, 
which is spiritual, which shall be pronounced upon 
the wicked when I shall say Depart ye cursed'. 

''It seems to me that there is a most interesting 
agreement here. Banishment from the place 
where God lives is death. By the operations of 
a natural law, a person who fails to correspond 
with a celestial environment dies to that environ- 
ment and must go or be placed in some other, 
where he can function with that which is about 
him. God's presence is exalted, holy, glorified. 
He who is not pure, holy, glorified cannot possibly 
live there, is dead to that higher world. A soul 
who cannot function in the celestial glory, may 
do so in the terrestial glory; one who cannot 
function in the terrestial, may in the telestial; 
ynd one who cannot 'abide the law' or function in 
the telestial must find a place of no glory. This 
is inevitable— it cannot be otherwise. Immuttablo 
law decrees it, and not simply the ruling of an 
allwise power. The soul who fails to attain to 
the celestial glory, fails to walk in the straight 
and narrow path which leads to it. Such a per- 
son wanders in the by-paths called sin, and no 
power in the universe can arbitrarily put him in 
an environment with which he cannot functon. 
'To be carnally minded is death', said Paul. 'The 
wages of sin is death', or in other words, he who 

140 DORIA^J 

persistently avoids the Celestial Highway will 
never arrive at the Celestial Gate. He who works 
evilly will obtain evil wages. Anyway, what 
would it profit a man with dim eyesight to be sur- 
rounded with ineffable glory? What would be 
the music of the spheres to one bereft of hearing? 
What gain would come to a man with a heart of 
stone to be in an environment of perfect and 
eternal love!" 

Dorian finished the reading and laid the paper 
on the desk. For some time he sat very still, 
thinking of these beautiful words from his dear 
friend to him. Surely, Uncle Zed was very much 
alive in any environment which his beautiful life 
had placed him. Would that he, Dorian, could 
live so that he might always be alive to the good 
and be dead to sin. 

The stillness of the night was about him. The 
lamplight grew dim, showing the oil to be gone, 
so he blew out the smoking wick. He opened the 
stove door, and by the light of the dying fire he 
gathered up some books to take home. He heard 
a noise as if someone were outside. He listened. 
The steps were muffled in the snow. They 
seemed to approach the house and then stop. 
There was silence for a few minutes, then plainly 
he heard sobbing close to the door. 

What could it mean? who could it be? Doubtless, 
some poor soul to whom Uncle Zed had been a 
ministering angel, had been drawn to the vacant 
house, and could not now control her sorrow. 


Then the sobbing ceased, and Dorian realized he 
had best find out who was there and give what 
help he could. He opened the door, and a fright- 
ened scream rang out from the surprised Carlia 
Duke who stood in the faint light from the open 
doorway. She stood for a second, then as if ter- 
ror stricken, she fled. 
'^Carlia," shouted Dorian. ^'Carlia!'' 

But the girl neither stopped nor looked back. 
Across the pathless, snow-covered fields she sped, 
and soon became only a dark-moving object on 
the white surface. When she had entirely disap- 
peared, Dorian went back, gathered up his bundles, 
locked the door, and went wonderingly and medi- 
tatingly home. 


IT is no doubt a wise provision of nature that 
the cold of winter closes the activity in field 
and garden, thus allowing time for study by 
the home fire. Dorian Trent's library, having been 
greatly enlarged, now became to him a source 
of much pleasure and profit. Books which he 
never dreamed of possessing were now on his 
shelves. In some people's opinion, he was too 
well satisfied to remain in his cosy room and 
bury himself in his books; but his mother found 
no fault. She was always welcome to come and 
go; and in fact, much of the time ho sat with 
her by the kitchen fire, reading aloud and discus- 
sing with her the contents of his book. 

Dorian found, as Uncle Zed had, wonderful 
arguments for the truth of the gospel in Orson 
and Parley P. Pratt's works. In looking througli 
the ''Journal of Discourses," he found markings 
by many of the sermons, especially by those of 
Brigham Young. Dorian always read the passages 
thus indicated, for he liked to realize that he was 
following the former owner of the book even 


in his thinking. The early volumes of the '^Mil- 
lennial Stai^" contained some interesting reading. 
Very likely, the doctrinal articles of these first 
elders were no better than those of more recent 
writers, but their plain bluntness and their very 
age seemed to give them charm. 

By his reading that winter Dorian obtained an 
enlarged view of his religion. It gave him vision 
to see and to comprehend better the whoJe and thus 
to more fully understand the details. Besides, he 
was laying a broad and firm foundation for hh 
faith in God and the restored gospel of Jesus 
Christ', a faith which would stand him Avell in 
need when he came to delve into a faithless and 
a Godless science. 

Not that Dorian became a hermit. He took an 
active part in the Greenstreet ward organizations. 
He was secretary of the Mutual, always attended 
Sunday School, and usually went to the ward 
dances. As he became older he overcame some 
of his shyness with girls; and as prosperity came 
to him, he could dress better and have his mass 
of rusty-red hair more frequently trimmed by the 
city barber. More than one of the discerning 
Greenstreet girls laid their caps for the big, hand- 
some young fellow. 

And Dorian's thoughts, we must know, were not 
all the time occupied with the philosophy oi: Orson 
Pratt. He was a very natural young man, and 
there were some very charming girls in Green- 
street. When, arrayed in their Sunday best, they 

144 DOBlAiN 

sat in the ward choir, he, not being a member 
of the choir, could look at them to his heart's 
content, first at one and then at another along 
the double row. Carlia Duke usually sat on the 
front row where he could see her clearly and 
compare her with the others — and she did not 
suffer by the comparison. 

Dorian now begin to realize that it was selfish, 
if not foolish, to think always of the dead Mildred 
to the exclusion of the very much alive Carlia. 
Mildred was safe in the world of spirits, where he 
would some day meet her again; but until that 
time, he had this life to live and those about him 
to think of. Carlia was a dear girl, beautiful, 
too, now in her maturing womanhood. None of 
the other girls touched his heart as Carlia. He 
had taken a number of them to dances, but he 
had always come back, in his thought, at least, 
to Carlia. But her actions lately had been much 
of a puzzle. tSometimes she seemed to welcome 
him eagerly when he called, at other times she 
tried to evade him. No doubt this Mr. Jack La- 
ment was the disturbing element. That winter 
he could be seen coming quite openly to the Duke 
home, and when the weather would permit, Carlia 
would be riding with him in his automobile. The 
neighbors talked, but the father could only shake 
his head and explain that Carlia was a willful 

Now when it seemed that Carlia was to be won 
by this very gallant stranger, Dorian began to 


realize what a loss slie would be to him. He was 
sure he loved the girl, but what did that avail if 
she did not love him in return. He held to the 
opinion that s|gh attrhetions should be mutual. 
He could see nPllense in the old-time custom of 
the knight winning his lady love by force of arms 
or by the fleetness of horse's legs. 

However, Dorian was not easy in his mind, and 
it came to the point when he suffered severe heart- 
aches when he knew of Carlia's being with the 
stranger. The Christmas holidays that season 
were nearly spoiled for him. He had asked Carlia 
a number of times to go to the parties with him, 
but she had offered some excuse each time. 

^ '*Let her alone,'' someone had >old him. 

I ''No; do not let her alone/' his mother had 
counseled; and he took his mother's advice. 

Carlia had been absent from the Sunday meet- 
ings for a number of weeks, so when she appeared 
in her place in the choir on a Sunday late in 
January, Dorian noticed the unusual palor of her 
face. He wondered if she had been ill. He re- 
solved to make another effort, for in fact, his 
heart went out to her. At the close of the meet- 
ing he found his way to her side as she was walk- 
ing home with her father and mother. Dorian 
never went through the formality of asking Carlia 
if he might accompany her home. He had always 
taken it for granted that he was welcome ; and, at 
any rate, a man could always tell by the girl's 
actions whether or not he was wanted. 


^^I haven't seen you for a long time,'' began 
Dorian by way of greeting. 

The girl did not reply. 

*'Been sick?" he asked.' 

^^ Yes— no, I'm all right/' 

The parents walked on ahead, leaving the two 
young people to follow. Evidently, Carlia was 
very much out of sorts, but the young man tried 
again. ; | ^^ 

'* What's the matter, Carlia?" 

'* Nothing." 

*'Well, I hope I'm not annoying you by my 
company." >^ 

No answer. They walked on in silence, Carlia 
looking straight ahead, not so much at her parents, 
as at the distant snow-clad mountains. Dorian 
felt like turning about and going home, but he 
could not do that very well^ so he went on to the 
gate, where he would have said goodnight had not 
Mrs. Duke urged him to come in. The father and 
mother w^ent to bed early, leaving the two young 
people by the dining-room fire. 

They managed to talk for some time on 'Svind 
and weather". Despite the paleness of cheek, 
Carlia was looking her best. Dorian was jealous. 

*' Carlia," he said, ''w^hy do you keep company 
with this Mr. Lamont?" 

She was standing near the book-shelf with its 
meagre collection. She turned abruptly at his 

*'Why shouldn't I go with him?" she asked. 


''You know why you shouldn't." 

*'I don't. Oh, I know the reasons usually given, 
but — what am I to do. He's so nice, and a per- 
fect gentleman. What harm is there?" 

''Why do you say that to me, Carlia?" 

''Why not to you?" She came and sat opposite 
him by the table. He was silent, and she re- 
peated her question, slowly, carefully, and with 
emphasis. ''Why not to you? Why should you 

"But I do care." 

"I don't believe it. You have never shown that 
you do." 

"I am showing it now." 

"Tomorrow you will forget it — forget me for 
a month." 


"You've done it before — many times — you'll 
do it again." 

The girl's eyes flashed. She seemed keyed up 
to carry through something she had planned to do, 
something hard. She arose and stood by the table, 
facing him. 

"I sometimes have thought that you cared for 

me but I'm through with that now. Nobody 

really cares for me. I'm only a rough farm hand. 
I know how to milk and scrub and churn and 
clean the stable — an' that's what I do day in and 
day out. There's no change, no rest for me, save 
when he takes me away from it for a little while. 
He understands, he's the only one who does." 


*'But, Carliar' 

**You/' she continued in the same hard voice, 
''you're altogether too good and too wise for such 
as I. You're so high up that I can't touch you. 
You live in the clouds, I among the clods. What 
have we two in common?'' 

''Much, Carlia— I— " 

He arose and came to her, but she evaded him. 

"Keep away, Dorian; don't touch me. You had 
better go home now." 

"You're not yourself, Carlia. What is the 
matter? You have never acted like this before." 

"It's not because I haven't felt like it, but it's 
because I haven't had the courage; but now it's 
come out, and I can't stop it. It's been pent up 
in me like a flood — ^now it's out. I hate this old 
farm — I hate everything and everybody — I — ^hate 

Dorian arose quickly as if he had been lifted to 
his feet. What was she saying? She was wild, 
crazy wild. 

"What have I done that you should hate me?" 
he asked as quietly as his trembling voice would 

"Done? nothing. It's what you haven't done. 
What hate you done to repay — my — Oh, God, I 
can't stand it — I can't stand it!" 

She walked to the wall and turned her face to 
it. She did not cry. The room was silently tense 
for a few moments. 

DORlA^i 149 

"I guess I'd better go,'' said Dorian. 

She did not reply. He picked ap his hat, lin- 
gered, then went to the door. She hated him. 
Then let him get out from her presence. She 
hated him. He had not thought that possible. 
Well, he would go. He would never annoy any 
girl who hated him, not if he knew it. How his 
heart ached, how his very soul seemed crushed! 
yet he could not appeal to her. She stood with 
her face to the wall, still as a statue, and as cold. 

''Good night," he said at the door. 

She said nothing, nor moved. He could see 
her body quiver, but he could not see her face. He 
perceived nothing clearly. The familiar room, 
poorly furnished, seemed strange to him. The 
big, ugly enlarged photographs on the wall blurred 
to his vision. Carlia, with head bowed now, ap- 
peared to stand in the midst of utter confusion. 
Dorian groped his way to the door, and stepped 
out into the wintry night. When he had reached 
the gate, Carlia rushed to the door. 

''Dorian!" she cried in a heart-breaking voice, 

"0, Dorian, come back — come back!" 

But Dorian opened the gate, closed it, then 
walked on down the road into the darkness, nor 
did he once look back. 


CARLIA'S ringing cry persisted with Dorian 
all the way home, but he hardened his heart 
and went steadily on. His mother had gone 
to bed, and he sat for a time by the dying fire, 
thinking of what he had just passed through. 

After that, Dorian kept away from Carlia. 
Although the longing to see her surged strongly 
through his heart from time to time, and he could 
not get away from the thought that she was in 
some trouble, yet his pride forbade him to intrude. 
He busied himself with chores and his books, and 
he did not relax in his ward duties. Once in a 
while he saw Carlia at the meeting house, but she 
absented herself more and more from public 
gatherings, giving as an excuse to all who inquired, 
that her work bound her more closely than ever 
at home. 

Dorian and his mother frequently talked about 
Uncle Zed and the hopes the departed one had 
of the young man. ''Do vou really think, n*other. 

DORIAN. 151 

that he meant I should devote my life to tho har- 
monizing of science and religion?'' hi asked. 

''I think Uncle Zed was in earnest. He had 
great faith in you.'' 

''But what do you think of it, mother?'' 

After a moment's thought, the mother replied: 

''What do you think of it?" 

''Well, it would be a task, though a wonderfully 
great one." 

"The aim is high, the kind I would oxpect of 
you. Do you know, Dorian, your father had some 
such ambition. That's one of the reasons we came 
to the country in hopes that sonu^ day he would 
have more time for studying." 

"I never knew that, mother." 

"And now, what if your father and Uncle Zed 
are talking about the matter ao there in the spirit 

Dorian thought of that for a few moments. 
Then: "I'll have to go to the University for four 
years, but that's only a beginning. Ill have to 
go East to Yale or Harvard and got all they have. 
Then will come a lot of individual research, and — 
Oh, mother, I don't know." 

"And all the time you'll have to keep near to 
God and never lose your faith in the gospel, for 
what doth it profit if you gain the whole world of 
knowledge and lose your own soul." The mother 
came to him and ran her fingers lovingly through 
his hair. "But you're equal to it, my son; I be- 
lieve you can do it." 


This was a sample of many such discussion, 
and the conclusion was reached that Dorian should 
work harder than ever, if that were possible, for 
two or perhaps three years, by which time the 
farms could be rented and the income derived from 
them be enough to provide for the mother's simple 
needs and the son's expenses while at school. 

Spring came early that year, and Dorian was 
glad of it, for he was eager to be out in the 
growing world and turn that growth to produc- 
tiveness. When the warm weather came for good, 
books were laid aside, though not forgotten. Prom 
daylight until dark, he was busy. The home farm 
was well planted, the dry-farm wheat was grow- 
ing beautifully. Between the two, prospects were 
bright for the furthering of their plans. 

''Mother, when and where in this great plan 
of ours, am I to get married?" 

Dorian and his mother were enjoying the dusk 
and the cool of the evening within odorous reach 
of Mrs. Trent's flowers, many of which had come 
from Uncle Zed's garden. They had been talking 
over some details of their ''plan." Mrs. Trent 
laughed at the abruptness of the question. 

"Oh, do you want to get married?" she asked, 
wondering what there might be to this query. 

"Well— sometimes, of course, I'll have to have 
a wife, won't I?" 

"Certainly, in good time; but yon 're in no 
hurry, are you?" 

"Oh, no; T'm just talking on freneral principles 


There's no one who would have me now," 

The mother did not dispute this. She knew 
somewhat of his feelings toward Carlia. These 
lovers' misunderstandings were not serious, she 
thought to herself. All would end properly and 
well, in good time. 

But Carlia was in Dorian's thought very often, 
much to his bewilderment of heart and mind. He 
often debated with himself if he should not de- 
finitely give her up, cease thinking about her as 
being anything to him either now or hereafter; 
but it seemed impossible to do that. Carlia 's 
image persisted even as Mildred's did. Mildred, 
away from the entanglements of the world, was 
safe to him; but Carlia had her life to live and 
the trials and difficulties of mortality to encounter 
and to overcome; and that would not be easy, 
with her beauty and her impulsive nature. She 
needed a man's clear head and steady hand to 
help her, and who was more fitting to do that 
than he himself, Dorian thought without conscious 

If it were possible, Dorian always spent Sunday 
at home. If he was on his dry farm in the hills, 
he drove down on Saturday evenings. One Satur- 
day in midsummer, he arrived home late and tired. 
He put up his team, came in, washed, and was 
ready for the good supper which his mother always 
had for him. The mother busied herself about the 
kitchen and the table. 

''Come anrl sit rlown. mother," nrgred Dorian 


''What's the fussing about? Everything I need 
is here on the table. You're tired, I see. Come, 
sit down with me and tell me all the news/' 

''The news? what newsT' 

"Why, everything that's happened in Green- 
street for the past week. I haven't had a visitor 
up on the farm for ten days." 

"Everything is growing splendidly down here. 
The water in the canal is holding out fine aud 
Brother Larsen is fast learning to be a farmer " 

"Good," said Dorian. "Our dry wheat is in 
most places two feet high, and it will j^o from 
forty to fifty bushels, with good luck. If now, 
the price of wheat doesn't sag too much." 

Dorian finished his supper, and was about to go 
to bed, being in need of a good rest. His mother 
told him not to get up in the morning until she 
called him. 

"All right, mother," he laughed as he kissed 
her good night, "but don't let me be late to 
Sunday School, as I have a topic to treat in the 
Theological class. By heck, they really think I'm 
Uncle Zed's successor, by the subjects they give 

He was about to go to his room when his 
mother called him by name. 
''Yes, mother, what is it?" 

''You'll know tomorrow, so I might as well tell 
you now." 
"Tell me what?" 
"Some bad news." 


^^Bad news? What is it?'' 

The mother seemed lothe to go on. She hesitated 

^*Well, mother?'' 

''Carlia is gone." 

^'Gone? Gone where?" 

''Nobody knows. She's been missing for a week. 
She left home last Saturday to spend a few 
days with a friend in the city, so she said. Yester- 
day her father called at the place to bring her 
home and learned that she had never been there." 

*'My gracious, mother!" 

''Yes; it's terrible. Her father has inquired 
for her and looked for her everywhere he could 
think of, but not a trace of her can he find. 
She's gone." 

Mother and son sat in silence for some time. He 
continued to ask questions, but she know no more 
than the simple facts which she had told. He 
could do nothing to help, at least, not then, so he 
reluctantly went to bed. He did not sleep until 
past midnight. 



DORIAN was not tardy to Sunday School, 
and, considering his mental condition, he gave 
a good account of himself in the class. He 
heard whispered comment on Carlia's disappear- 

After Sunday school Dorian went directly to 
Carlia's home. He found the mother tear-stained 
and haggard with care. The tears flowed again 
freely at the sight of Dorian, and she clung to him 
as if she had no other means of comfort. 

*'Do you know where Carlia is?" she wailed. 
''No, Sister Duke, I haven't the last idea. I 
haven't seen her for some time.'' 

''But what shall we do, Dorian, what shall w^ 
do? She may be dead, lying dead somewhere!" 
I hardly think that," he tried to comfort her. 
She'll turn up again. Carlia 's well able to 

i t 

take care of herself." 

The father came in. He told what had beea 
done to try to find the missing girl. Not a word 
had they heard, not a clue or a trace had been 
discovered The father tried hard to (control hi» 


emotions as he talked, but he could not keep the 
tears from slowly creeping down his face. 

''And I suppose I'm greatly to blame'' he said. 
''I have been told as much by some, who I suppose, 
are wiser than I am. The poor girl has been 
confined too much to the work here." 

''Work doesn't hurt anybody," commented 

"No; but all work and no play, I was plainly 
reminded just the other day, doesn't always make 
Jack a dull boy: sometimes, it makes dissatisfac- 
tion and rebellion — and it seems it has done that 
here. Carlia, I'll admit had very little company, 
saw very little of society. I realize that now 
when it may be too late." 

"Oh, I hope not," said Dorian. 

"Carlia, naturally, was full of life. She wanted 
to go and see and learn. All these desires in her 
were suppressed so long that this is the way it 
has broken loose. Yes, I suppose that's true." 

Dorian let the father give vent to his feelings 
ir. his talk. He could reply very little, for truth 
to say, he realized that the father was stating 
Carlia 's case quite accurately. He recalled the 
girl when he and she had walked back and forth 
to and from the high school how she had rapidly 
developed her sunny nature in the warm, some- 
what care-free environment of the school life, and 
how lately with the continual drudgery of her 
work, she had changed to a pessimism unnatural 


to one of her years. Yes, one continual round of 
work at the farm house is apt either to crush to 
dullness or to arouse to rebellion. Carlia v/as of 
the kind not easily crushed . . . But what could they 
now do ? What could he do ? For, it came to him 
with great force that he himself was not alto- 
gether free from blame in this matter. Ho could 
have done more, vastly more for Carlia Duke. 

'^Well, Brother Duke,'' said Dorian. '^Is there 
anything that I can do?" 

''I don't think of anything,'' said he. 

'^Not now," added the mother in a tone which 
indicated that she did not wish the implied occa- 
sion to be too severe. . 

The father followed Dorian out in the yard. 
There Dorian asked : 

''Brother Duke, has this Mr. Lamont been about 

*'He was here yesterday. He came, he said, 
as soon as he heard of Carlia 's disappearance. He 
seemed very much concerned about it." 

''And he knew nothing about it until yester- 

"He said not — do you suspect — he — might — ?" 

"I'm not accusing anybody, but I never was 
favorably impressed with the man." 

"He seemed so truly sorry, that I never thought 
he might have had something to do with it." 

"Well, I'm not so sure; but I'll go and see him 
myself. I suppose I can find him in his office in 
the city? 



''I think so— Well, do what you can for us, my 
boy; and Dorian, don't take to heart too much 
what her mother implied just now.'' 

''Not any more than I ought,'' replied Dorian. 
*'If there is any blame to be placed on me — and 
I think there is — I want to bear it, and do what 
I can to correct my mistakes. I think a lot of 
Carlia, I like her more than any other girl I know, 
and I should have shown that to her both by word 
and deed more than I have done. I'm going to 
help you find her, and when I find her I'll not let 
her go so easily." 

''Thank you. I'm glad to hear you say that." 

Monday morning Dorian went to the city and 
readily found the man whom he was seeking. He 
was in his office, 

"Good morning. Glad to see you," greeted Mr. 
Lamont, as he swung around on his chair, "Take 
a seat. What can I do for you?" 

As the question was asked abruptly, the answer 
came in like manner. 

"I want to know what you know about Carlia 

Mr. Lamont reddened, but he soon regained his 

"What do you mean?" he asked. 

"You have heard of her disappearance?" 

"Yes; I was very sorry to hear of it." 

"It seems her father has exhausted every known 
means of finding her, and I thought you miglit, 
at least, give him a clew." 

160 DOBlAl^ 

**I should be most happy to do so, if I could; 
but I assure you I haven't the least idea where 
she has gone. I am indeed sorry, as I expressed 
to her father the other day. ' ' 

*^You were with her a good deal.'' 

''Well, not a good deal, Mr. Trent — just a 
little," he smilingly corrected. ''I will admit I'd 
liked to have seen more of her, but I soon learned 
that I had not the ghost of a chance with you in 
the field." 

''You are making fun, Mr. Lamont." 

"Not at all, my good fellow. You are the 
lucky dog when it comes to Miss Duke. A fine 
girl she is^ a mighty fine girl — a diamond^ just a 
little in the rough. As I'm apparently out of the 
race, go to it, Mr. Trent and win her. Good luck 
to you. I don't think you'll have much trouble." 

Dorian was somewhat nonplused by this ful- 
some outburst. He could not for a moment find 
anything to say. The two men looked at each 
other for a moment as if each were measuring the 
other. Then Mr. Lamont said: 

"If at any time I can help you, let me know — 
call on me. Now you'll have to excuse me as I 
have some business matters to attend to." 

Dorian was dismissed. 

The disappearance af Carlia Duke continued to 
be a profound mystery. The weeks went by, and 
then the months. The gossips found other and 
newer themes. Those directly affected began to 
think that all hopes of finding her were gone. 


Dorian, however, did not give up. In the 
strenuous labors of closing summer and fall he 
had difficulty in keeping his mind on his work. 
His imagination ranged far and wide, and when it 
went into the evil places of the world, he suffered 
so that he had to throw off the suggestion by force. 
He talked freely with his mother and with Car- 
lia's parents on all possible phases of the matter, 
until, seemingly, there was nothing more to bt 
said. To others, he said nothing. 

Ever since Dorian had been taught to lisp his 
simple prayers at his mother's knee, he had found 
strength and comfort in going to the Lord. With 
the growth of his knowledge of the gospel and his 
enlarged vision of God's providences, his prayers 
became a source of power. Uncle Zed had taught 
him that this trustful reliance on a higher power 
was essential to his progress. The higher must 
come to the help of the lower, but the lower must 
seek for that help and sincerely accept it when 
offered. As a child, his prayers had been very 
largely a set form, but as he had come in con- 
tact with life and its experiences, he had learned 
to suit his prayers to his needs. Just now, Carlia 
and her welfare was the burden of his petitions. 

The University course must wait another year, 
so Dorian and his mother decided. They could 
plainly see that one more year would be needed, 
besides Dorian was not in a condition to concen- 
trate his mind on study. So, when the long even- 
ings came on again, he found solace in his books, 


162 DOlliAN 

and read again many of dear Uncle Zed's writings 
which had been addressed so purposely to him. 

One evening in early December Dorian and his 
mother were cosily *^at home" to any good visitors 
either of persons or ideas. Dorian was looking 
over some of his papers. 

*' Mother, listen to this," he said. ''Here is a 
gem from Uncle Zed which I have not seen be- 
fore." He read: 

'' 'The acquisition of wealth brings with it the 
obligation of helping the poor; the acquisition of 
knowledge brings with it the obligation of teaching 
others; the acquisition of strength and power 
brings with it the obligation of helping the weak. 
This is what God does when He says that His 
work and His glory is to bring to pass the im- 
mortality and eternal life of man'." 

^'How true that is," said the mother. 

"Yes," added Dorian after a thoughtful pause, 
I am just wondering how and to what extent I am 
fulfilling any obligation which is resting on me 
by reason of blessings I am enjoying. Let's see — 
we are not rich, but we meet every call made on 
us by way of tithing and donations; we are not 
very wise, but we impart of what we have by 
service; we are not very strong — I fear, mother, 
that's where I lack. Am I giving of my strength 
as fully as I can to help the weak. I don 't know 
—I don't know." 

'*You mean Carlia?" 
Yes; what am I doing besides thinking and 

( < 


DORIAK^ 19& 

praying for lierT' 

*'What more can we do?" 

''Well, I can try doing something more/' 

''What, for instance?'' 

"Trying to find her.'' 

"But her father has done that." 

"Yes; but he has given up too soon. I should 
continue the search. I've been thinking about 
that lately. I can't stay cosily and safely at home 
any longer, mother, when Carlia may be in want 
of protection." 

"And what would you be liable to find if you 
found her?" 

That question was not new to his own mind, 
although his mother had not asked it before. Per- 
haps, in this case, ignorance was more bliss than 
knowledge. Whatever had happened to her, would 
it not be best to have the pure image of her abide 
with him? But he know when he thought of it 
further that such a conclusion was not worthy of 
a strong man. He should not be afraid even of 
suffering if it came in the performance of duty. 

That very night Dorian had a strange dream, 
one unusual to him because he remembered it so 
distinctly the day after. He dreamed that he 
saw Mildred in what might well be called the 
heavenly land. She seemed busy in sketching a 
beautiful landscape and as he approached her, she 
looked up to him and smiled. Then, as she still 
gazed at him, her countenance changed and with 
concern in her voice, she asked, "Where's Carlia?" 


The scene vanished, and that was all of the 
dream. In the dim consciousness of waking he 
seemed to hear Carlia's voice calling to him as it 
did that winter night when he had left her, not 
heeding. The call thrilled his very heart again : 

'^Dorian, Dorian, come back — come back!'* 


THE second week in December Dorian went 
into action in search of Carlia Duke. He 
acknowledged to himself that it was like 
searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack, 
but inaction was no longer possible. 

Carlia very likely had no large amount of money 
with her, so she would have to seek employment. 
She could have hidden herself in the city, but 
Dorian reasoned that she would be fearful of 
being found, so would have gone to some near- 
by town ; but which one, he had no way of know- 
ing. He visited a number of adjacent towns and 
made dilligent enquires at hotels, stores, and some 
private houses. Nothing came of this first week's 

A number of mining towns could easily be 
reached by train from the city. In these towns 
many people came and went without notice or 
comment. Dorian spent nearly a week in one of 
them, but he found no clue. He went to another. 
The girl would necessarily have to go to a hotel 
ftt first, 80 the searcher examined a number of 


hotel registers. She had been gone now about 
six months, so the search had to be in some books 
long since discarded, much to the annoyance of 
the clerks. 

Dorian left the second town for the third which 
was situated well up in the mountains. The 
weather was cold, and the snow lay two feet deep 
over the hills and valleys. He became disheart- 
ened at times, but always he reasoned that he must 
try a little longer; and then one day in a hotel 
register dated nearly five monhs back, he found 
this entry: 

^'Carlia Davis.'' 

Dorian's heart gave a bound when he saw the 
name. Carlia was not a common name, and the 
handwriting was familiar. But why Davis? He 
examined the signature closely. The girl, unex- 
perienced in the art of subterfuge, had started to 
write her name, and had gotten to the D in Duke, 
when the thought of disguise had come to her. 
Yes; there was an unusual break between that 
first letter and the rest of the name. Carlia had 
been here. He was on the right track, thank the 
Lord ! 

Dorian enquired of the hotel clerk if he remem- 
bered the lady. Did he know anything about 
her? No; that was so long ago. His people came 
and went. That was all. But Carlia had been 
here. That much was certain. Here was at least 
a fixed point in the sea of nothingness from which 
he could work. His wearied and confused mind 


could at least come back to that name in the hotel 

He began a systematic search of the town. First 
he visited the small business section, but without 
results. Then he took up the residential district, 
systematically, so that he would not miss any. 
One afternoon he knocked on the door of what 
appeared to be one of the best residences. After 
a short wait, the door was opened by a girl, highly 
painted but lightly clad, who smiled at the hand- 
some young fellow and bade him come in. He 
stepped into the hall and was shown into what 
seemed to be a parlor, though the parlors he had 
known had not smelled so of stale tobacco smoke. 
He made his usual inquiry. No ; no such girl was 
here, she was sorry, but — the words which came 
from the carmine lips of the girl so startled 
Dorian that he stood, hat' in hand, staring at her, 
and shocked beyond expression. He know, of 
course, that^ evil houses existed especially in 
mining towns, inhabited by corrupt women, but 
this was the first time he had ever been in such a 
place. When he realized where he was, a real 
terror seized him, and with uncermonious haste 
he got out and away, the girl's laughter of de- 
rision ringing in his ears. 

Dorian was unnerved. He went back to his 
room, his thoughts in a whirl, his apprehensions 
sinking to gloomy depths. What if Carlia should 
be in such a place? A cold sv/eat of suffering 
broke over him before he could drive 8way the 


thought. But at last he did get rid of it. Hii 
mind cleared again, and he set out determined to 
continued the search. However, he went no more 
into the houses by the invitation of inmates of 
doubtful character, but made his inquiries at the 
open door. 

Then it oceured to Dorian that Carlia, being a 
country bred girl and accustomed to work about 
farm houses, might apply to some of the adjacent 
farms down in the valley below the town for work. 
The whole country lay under deep snow, but the 
roads were well broken. Dorian walked out to a 
number of the farms and made enquires. At the 
third house he was met by a pleasant faced, elder- 
ly woman who listened attentively to what he said, 
and then invited him in. When they were both 
seated, she asked him his name. Dorian told her. 

^*And why are you interested in this girl?'' she 

Has she been here?" he asked eagerly. 
Never mind. You answer my question." 

Dorian explained as much as he thought proper, 
but the woman still appeared suspicious. 

''Are you her brother?'' 


''Her young man?" 

"Not exactly; only a dear friend." 

"Well, you look all right, but looks are de- 
ceivin'." The woman tried to be very severe 
with him, but somehow she did not succeed very 
well. She looked quite motherly as she sat with 


her folded hands in her ample lap and a shrewd 
look in her face. Dorian gained courage to say: 

'*I believe you know something about the girl 
I am seeking. Tell me,'* 

''You haven't told me the name of the girl you 
are looking for." 

''Her name is Carlia Duke." 

"That isn't what she called herself." 

"Oh, then you do know." 

"This girl was Carlia Davis." 

"Yes — ^is she here?" 


"Do you know where she is?" 

"No, I don't." 

Dorian's hopes fell. "But tell me what you 
know about her — you know something." 

"It was the latter part of August when she 
came to us. She had walked from town, an' she 
said she was wanting a place to work. As she 
was used to farm life, she preferred to work at a 
country home, she said." 

Was she a dark-haired, rosy-cheeked girl?" 
Her hair was dark, but there was no rosei 
in her cheeks. There might have been once. I 
was glad to say yes to her for I needed help bad. 
Of course, it was strange, this girl comin' from 
the city a' wanting to work in the country. It's 
usually the other way." 

"Yes; I suppose so." 

"So I was a little suspicious." 

"Of what?" 



**That she hadn't come to work at all; thoHgh 
I'll say that she did her best. I tried to prevent 
her, but she worked right up tofhe last." 

''To the last? I don't understand!" 

''Don't you know that she was to be sick! That 
she came here to be sick!" 

"To be sick!" Dorian was genuinely at loss to 

"At first I called her a cheat, and threatened to 
send her away; but the poor child pleaded so to 
stay that I hadn't the heart to turn her out. She 
had no where to go, she was a long way from 
home, an' so I let her stay, an' we did the best 
for her." 

Dorian, in the simplicity of his mind, did not 
yet realize what the woman was talking about. 
He let her continue. 

"We had one of the best doctors in the city 
'tend her, an' I did the nursing myself which I 
consider was as good as any of the new-fangled 
trained nurses can do; but the poor girl had been 
under a strain so long that the baby died soon 
after it was born." 

"The baby!" gasped Dorian. 

"Yes," went on the woman, all unconsciously 
that the listener had not fully understood. "Yes, 
it didn't live long, which, I suppose, in such cases, 
is a blessing." 

Dorian stared at the woman, then in a dazed 
way, he looked about the plain farm-house furnish- 
ings, some details of which strangely impressed 


him. The woman went on talking, which seemed 
easy for her, now she had fairly started; but 
Dorian did not hear all she said. One big fact 
was forcing itself into his brain, to the exclusion 
of all minor realities. 

''She left a month ago," Dorian heard the 
woman say when again he was in a condition to 
listen. ''We did our best to get her to stay, for 
we had become fond of her. Somehow, she got 
the notion that the scoundrel who had betrayed 
her had found her hiding place, an' she was 
afraid. So she left." 

"Where did she go? Did she tell you?" 

"No; she wouldn't say. The fact is, she didn't 
know herself. I'm sure of that. She just seemed 
anxious to hide herself again. Poor girl." The 
woman wiped a tear away with the corner of her 

Dorian arose^ thanked her, and went out. He 
looked about the snow-corered earth and the clouds 
which threatened storm. He walked on up to the 
road back to the town. He was benumbed, but 
not with cold. He went into his room, and, al- 
though it was mid-afternoon, he did not go out 
any more that day. He sat supinely on his bed. 
He paced the floor. He looked without seeing out 
of the window at the passing crowds. He could 
not think at all clearly. His whole being was in 
an uproar of confusion. The hours passed. Night 
came on with its blaze of lights in the streets. 
What could he do now? What should he do now? 


'*0h, God, help me," he prayed, **help me to order 
my thoughts, tell me what to do.'* 

K ever in his life Dorian had need of help from 
a higher power, it was now. 


DORIAN had not found Carlia Duke ; instead, 
he had found something which appeared to 
him to be the end of all things. Had he 
found her dead, in her virginal purity, he could 
have placed her, with Mildred, safely away in his 
heart and his hopes ; but this ! . . . . What more 
could he now do ? That he did not take the first 
train home was because he was benumbed into 

The young man had never before experienced 
such suffering of spirit. The leaden weight on his 
heart seemed to be crushing, not only his physical 
being, but his spirit also into the depths of despair. 
As far back in his boyhood as he could remember, 
he had been taught the enormity of sexual sin, until 
it had become second nature for him to think of 
it as something very improbable, if not impossible, 
as pertaining to himself. And yet, here it was, 
right at the very door of his heart, casting its evil 
shadow into the most sacred precincts of his being. 
He had never imagined it coming to any of his 
near and dear ones, especially not to Carlia — 


Carlia, his neighbor, his chummy companion in 
fields and highways, his schoolmate. He pictured 
her in many of her wild adventures as a child, 
and in her softer moods as a grown-up girl. He 
saw again her dark eyes flash with anger, and then 
her pearly teeth gleam in laughter at him. He 
remembered how she used to run from him, and 
then at other times how she would cling to him 
as if she pleaded for a protection which he had 
not given. The weak had reached out to the 
strong, and the stronger one had failed. If * re- 
morse of conscience' is hell, Dorian tasted of its 
bitter dephts, for it came to him now that perhaps 
because of his neglect, Carlia had been led to her 

But what could he now do? Find her. And 
then, what? Marry her? He refused to consider 
that for a moment. He drove the thought fiercely 
away. That would be impossible now. The horror 
of what had been would always stand as a repel- 
lent specter between them Yes,, he had loved 

her — he knew that now more assuredly than ever; 
and he tried to place that love away from him by 
a play upon words in the past tense; but deep 
down in his heart he knew that he was merely 
trying to deceive himself. He loved her still; and 
the fact that he loved her but could not marry her 
added fuel to the flames of his torment. 

That long night was mostly a hideous nightmare 
and even after he awoke from a fitful sleep next 
morning, he was in a stupor. After a while, he 
went out into the wintry air. It was Sunday, and 

BUElAiN 175 

the town was comparatively quiet. He found 
something to eat at a lunch counter, then he walked 
about briskly to try to get his blood into active 
circulation. Again he went to his room. 

Presently, he heard the ringing of church bells. 
The folks would be going to Sunday school in 
Greenstreet. He saw in the vision of his mind 
Uncle Zed sitting with the boys about him in his 
class. He saw the teacher's lifted hand emphasize 
the warning against sin, and then he seemed to 
hear a voice read : 

''For the Son of man is come to save that which 
is lost. 

''How think ye if a man have an hundred sheep, 
and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave 
the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, 
and seeketh that which is gone astray? 

"And if so be that he find it, verily, I say unto 
you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep than of 
the ninety and nine which went not astray.'' 

Dorian seemed to awaken with a start. Donning 
coat and hat, he went out again, his steps being 
led down the country road toward the farmhouse. 
He wanted to visit again the house where Carlia 
had been. Her presence there and her suffering 
had hallowed it. 

"Oh, how do you do?" greeted the woman, when 
she saw Dorian at the door. "Come in.'' 

Dorian entered, this time into the parlor which 
was warm, and where a man sat comfortably with 
his Sunday paper. 


'Tather,*' said the woman, *'tliis is the young 
man who was here yesterday." 

The man shook hands with Dorian and bade him 
draw up his chair to the stove. 

**I hope you'll excuse me for coming again/'' 
said Dorian; '*but the fact of the matter is I 
seemed unable to keep away. I left yesterday 
without properly thanking you for what you did 
for my friend, Miss Carlia. I also want to pay 
you a little for the expense you were put to. I 
haven't much money with me, but I will send it to 
you after I get home, if you will give me your 
name and address. '^ 

The farmer and his wife exchanged glances. 

'*Why, as to that,'' replied the man, ^'nothing 
is owing us. We liked the girl. We think she 
was a good girl and had been sinned against." 

**I'm sure you are right," said Dorian. *'As 
I said, I went away rather abruptly yesterday. I 
was so completely unprepared for that which I 
learned about her. But I'm going to find her if 
I can, and take her home to her parents." 

*' Where do you live?" asked the man, 

Dorian told him. 

''Are you a 'MormonT* 

''Yes, sir." 

"And not ashamed of it?" 

"No; proud of it — grateful, rather." 

"Well, young man, you look like a clean, honest 
chap. Tell me why you are proud to bo a 'Mor- 



Dorian did his best. He had had very little 
experience in presenting the principles of the 
gospel to an nnbeliever, but Uncle Zed's teachings, 
together with his own studies, now stood him well 
in hand. 

'^Well/' commented the farmer, '* that's fine. 
You can't be a very bad man if you believe in 
and practice all what you have been telling us." 

''I hope I am not a bad man. I have some light 
on the truth, and woe is me if T sin against that 

The farmer turned to his wife. *' Mother/' ht 
said," I think you may safely tell him." 

Dorian looked enquiringly at the woman. 

**It's this," she said. ''My husband brought 
home a postcard from the office last evening after 
you had left — a card from Miss Davis, asking us to 
send her an article of dress which she had forgot- 
ten. Here is the card. The address may help you 
to find her. I am sure you mean no harm to the 

Dorian made note of the address, as also that 
of the farmer's with whom he was visiting. Then 
he arose to go. 

*'Now, don't be in such a hurry," admonished 
the man. ''We'll have dinner presently." 

Dorian was ^lad to remain, as he felt quite at 
home with these people, Mr. and Mrs. Whitman. 
They had been good to Carlia. Perhaps he could 
learn a little more about her. The dinner was en- 
joyed very much. Afterward, Mrs. Whitman, en- 




couraged by Dorian's attentiveness, poured into 
his willing ear all she had learned of the girl h( 
was seeking; and before the woman ceased her 
freely-flowing talk, a most important item had beej 
added to his knowledge of the ease. Carlia, it 
seems, had gone literally helpless to her downfall. 
*' Drugged'' was the word Mrs. Whitman used, 
The villainy of the foul deed moved the young 
man's spirit to a fierce anger against the wretch 
who had planned it, and the same time his pity 
increased for the unfortunate victim. As Doriar 
sat there and listened to the story which th( 
woman had with difficulty obtained from the girl 
he again suffered the remorse of conscience whicl 
comes from a realization of neglected duty and dis 
regarded opportunity. It was late in the after 
noon before he got back to the town. 

The next day Dorian made inquiries as to ho^ 
he could reach the place indicated by the address 
and he learned that it was a ranch house well ui 
in the mountains. There was a daily mail in tha 
direction, except when the roads and thi3 weathe; 

hindered ; and it seemed that these would now b( 
hinderances. The threatened storm came, an( 
with it high wind which piled the snow into deep 
hard drifts, making the mountain road nearly im] 
passible. Dorian found the mail-carrier who toh 
him that it would be impossible to make a starj 
until the storm had ceased.. All day the snow fell] 
and all day Dorian fretted impatiently, and waj 

tempted to once more go out to Mr. and Mrs 

DOEIA^ 178 

Whitman; but he did not. Christmas was only- 
three days off. He could reach home and spend 
the day with his mother, but there would be con- 
siderable expense, and he felt as if he must 
be on the ground so that at the soonest possible 
moment he could continue on the trail which he 
had found. The pleasure of the home Christmas 
must this time be sacrificed, for was not he in 
very deed going into the mountains to seek that 
which was lost. 

The storm ceased toward evening, but the post- 
man would not make a start until next morning. 
Dorian joined him then, and mounted beside him. 
The sky was not clear, the clouds only breaking 
and drifting about as if in doubt whether to go or 
to stay. The road was heavy, and it was all the 
two horses could do to draw the light wagon with 
its small load. Dorian wondered how Carlia had 
ever come that way. Of course, it had been be- 
fore the heavy snow, when traveling was not so 

^'Who lives at this place?" asked Dorian of the 
driver, giving the box number Carlia had sent. 

''That? Oh, that's John Hickson's place.'' 

''A rancher?" 

''No; not exactly. He's out here mostly for 
his health." 

"Does he live here in the mountains the year 

"Usually he moves into town for the winter. 
Last year the winter was so mild that he decided 
to try to stick one through; but surely, he's got 


a dose this time. Pretty bad for a sick man, I 

** Anybody with himT' 

''Wife and three children — three of the cutest 
kiddies you ever saw. Oh, he's comfortable 
enough, for he's got a fine house. You know, it's 
great out here among the pine hills in the summer; 
but just now, excuse me." 
''Is it far?" 

"No." The driver looked with concern at the 
storm which was coming again down the mountain 
like a great white wave. "I think perhaps we'll 
have to stop at the Hickson's tonight," he said. 

The travelers were soon enwrapped in a swirling 
mantle of snow. Slowly and carefully the dug- 
ways had to be traversed. The sky was dense and 
black. The storm became a blizzard, and the 
cold became intense. The men wrapped them- 
selves in additional blankets. The horses went 
patiently on, the driver peering anxiously ahead; 
but it must have been well after noon before the 
outlines of a large building near at hand bulked 
out of the leaden sky. 
"I'm glad we're here," exclaimed the driver. 
"Where?" asked Dorian. 
"At Hickson's." 

They drove into the yard and under a shed 
where the horses were unhitched and taken into a 
stable. A light as if from a wood fire in a grate 
danced upon the white curtain of the unshaded 
windows. With his mail-bag, the driver shuffled 
bis way through the snow to the kitchen door and 


knocked The door opened immediately and Mra. 
Hickson, recognizing the mail-driver, bade him 
come in. Two children peered curiously from the 
doorway of another room. Dorian a little nerv- 
ously awaited the possibility of Carlia's appear- 

It was pleasant to get shelter and a warm 
welcome in such weather. After the travelers 
had warmed themselves by the kitchen stove, they 
were invited into another room to meet Mr. Hick- 
son, who was reclining in a big arm chair before 
the grate. He welcomed them without rising, but 
pointed them to chairs by the fire. They talked of 
the weather, of course. Mr. Hickson reasoned that 
it was foolish to complain about something which 
they could not possible control. Dorian was in- 
troduced as a traveler, no explanation being asked 
or given as to his business. He was welcome. In 
fact, it was a pleasure, said the host, to have com- 
pany even for an evening, as very few people ever 
stopped over night, especially in the winter. Do- 
rian soon discovered that this man was not a rough 
mountaineer, but a man of culture, trying to pro- 
long his earth-life by the aid of mountain air, 
laden with the aroma of the pines. The wife went 
freely in and out of the room, the children also; 
but somewhat to Dorian's surprise, no Carlia ap- 
peared. If she were there in the house, she surely 
would be helping with the meal which seemed to 
be in the way of preparation. 

The storm continued all afternoon. There could 
be no thought of moving on that day And indeed. 

182 ^ DORIAN 

it was pleasant sitting thus by the blazing log in 
the fireplace and listening, for the most part, to 
the intelligent talk of the host. The evening meal 
was served early, and the two gnests ate with the 
\ family in the dining room . Still no Carlia. 
*' When the driver went out to feed his horses and 
'^ to smoke his pipe, and Mr. Hickson had retired, 
the children, having overcome some of their tim- 
idity, turned their attention to Dorian. The girl, 
the oldest, with dark hair and rosy cheeks, re- 
minded him of another girl just then in his 
thoughts. The two small boys were chubby and 
light haired, after the mother. When Dorian 
managed to get the children close to him, they 
reminded him that Christmas was only one day 
distant. Did he live near by? Was he going 
home for Christmas? What was Santa Claus 
going to bring him? 

Dorian warmed to their sociability and their 
clatter. He learned from them that their Christ- 
mas this year would likely be somewhat of a fail- 
ure. Daddy was sick. There was no Christmas tree, 
and they doubted Santa Claus' ability to find his 
way up in the mountains in the storm. This was 
the first winter they had been here. Always they 
had been in town during the holidays, where it 
was easy for Santa to reach them; but now — the 
little girl plainly choked back the tears of disap- 

''Why, if it's a Christmas tree you want," said 
Dorian, ''that ought to be easy. There are plenty 
up on the nearby hills." 


"Yes; but neither papa nor mama nor we can 
get them." 
"But I can." 

"Oh, will you? Tomorrow?" 
"Yes; tomorrow is Christmas Eve. We'll have 
to have it then." 

The children were dancing with #ee as the 
mother came in and learned what had been going 
on. "You mustn't bother the gentleman," she 
admonished, but Dorian pleaded for the pleasure 
of doing something for them. The mother ex- 
plained that because of unforeseen difficulties the 
children were doomed to disappointment this holi- 
day season, and they would have to be satisfied 
with what scanty preparation could be made. 

"I think I can help," suggested the young man, 
patting the littlest confiding fellow on the head. 
"We cannot go on until tomorrow, I understand, 
and I should very much like to be useful." 

The big pleading eyes of the children won the 
day. They moved into the kitchen. All the cor- 
ners were ransacked for colored paper and cloth, 
and with scissors and flour paste, many fantastic 
decorations were made to hang on the tree. Corn 
was popped and strung into long white chains. But 
what was to be done for candles? Could Dorian 
make candles? He could do most everything, 
couldn't he? He would try. Had they some parafine, 
used to seal preserve jars. Oh, yes, large pieces 
were found. And this with some string was soon 
made into some very possible candles. The chil- 
dren were intensely interested, and even the mail- 


driver wondered at the young man's cleverness. 
They had never seen anything like this before. 
The tree and its trimmings had always been bought 
ready for their use. Now they learned, which 
their parents should have known long ago, that 
there is greater joy in the making of a plaything 
than in the possession of it. 

The, question of candy seemed to bother them 
all. Their last hopes went when there was not 
a box of candy in the postman's bag. "What 
should they do for candy and nuts and oranges 
and — 

*'Can you make candy?" asked the girl of 
Dorian as if she was aware she was asking the 

**Now children," warned the happy mother. 
''You have your hands full" she said to Dorian. 
*' There's no limit to their demands." 

Dorian assured her that the greater pleasure 
was his. 

** Tomorrow," he told the clammering children, 
*'well see what we can do about the candy." 

'* Chocolates?" asked one. 

''Caramels," chose another. 

"Fudge," suggested the third. 

"All these?" laughed Dorian. Well, we'll see --- 
tomorrow," and with that the children went to 
bed tremulously happy. 

The next morning the san arose on «i most 
beautiful scene. The snow lay deep on mountain 
and in valley. It ridged the fences and trees. 
Paths and roads were obliterated. 


Tho children were awake early. As Dorian 
dressed, he heard them scampering dovni the stain. 
Evidently, they were ready for him. Ho locked 
out of the window. He would have to make good 
about that tree. 

As yet, Dorian had found no traces of the object 
of his search. He had not asked direct questions 
about her, but he would have to before he Itf i. 
There seemed some mystery always just before 
him. The mail-driver would not be ready to go 
before noon, so Dorian would have time to get the 
tree and help the children decorate it. Then he 
would have to find out all there was to know about 
Carlia. Surely, she was somewhere in the locality. 

After breakfast, Dorian found the axe in the 
wood-shed, and began to make his way through 
the deep snow up the hill toward a small grove of 
pine. Behind the shoulder of a hill, he discovered 
another house, not so large as Mr. Hickson's, but 
neat and comfortably looking. The blue smoke 
of a wood fire was rising from the chimney. A 
girl was vigorously shoveling a path from the 
house to the wood-pile. She was dressed in big 
boots, a sweater, and a red hood. She did not see 
Dorian until he came near the small clearing by 
the house. Straightening from her work, she stood 
for a moment looking intently at him. Then with 
a low, yet startled cry, she let the shovel fall, and 
sped swiftly back along the newly-made path and 
into the house. 
It was Carlia. 




DORIAN stood knee-deep in the snow and 
watched the girl run back into the house. 
In his surprise, he forgot his immediate 
errand. He had found Carlia, found her well and 
strong; but why had she run from him with a 
cry of alarm? She surely had recognized him; she 
would not have acted thus toward a stranger. 
Apparently, she was not glad to see him. He 
stood looking at the closed door, and a feeling of 
resentment came to him. Here he had been 
searching for her all this time, only to be treated 
as if he were an unwelcome intruder. Well, he 
would not force himself on her. If she did not 
want to see him, why annoy her? He could go 
back, tell her father where she was, and let him 
come for her. He stood, hesitating. 

The door opened again and a woman looked 
out inquiringly at the young man standing in the 
snow with an axe on his shoulder. Dorian would 
have to offer a word of explanation to the woman, 
at least, so he stepped into the path toward the 


^^Good morning/^ he said, lifting his hat. ''I'm 
out to get a Christmas tree for the children over 
there, and it seems I have startled the young lady 
who just ran in." 

''Yes,'' said the woman. 

''I'm sorry to have frightened her, but I'm glad 
to have found her. You see, I've been searching 

for her." 

The woman stood in the doorway, saying noth- 
ing, but looking with some suspicion at the young 


"I should like to see her again," continued 
Dorian. "Tell her it's Dorian Trent." 

"Ill tell her," said the woman as she withdrew 
and closed the door. 

The wait seemed long, but it was only a few 
minutes when the door opened and Dorian was in- 
vited to come in. They passed through the kitchen 
into the living room where a fire was burning in 
a grate. Dorian was given a chair. He could not 
fail to see that he was closely observed. The 
woman went into another room, but soon returned. 

"She'll be in shortly," she announced. 

"Thank you." 

The woman retired to the kitchen, and presently 
Carlia came in. She had taken off her wraps and 
now appeared in a neat house dress. As she stood 
hesitatingly by the door. Dorian came with out- 
stretched hands to greet her; but she was not 
eager to meet him, so he went back to his chair. 
Bo°th were silent. He saw it was the ^ame Carlia, 



with something added, something which must have 
taken much experience if not much time to bring 
to her. The old-time roses^ somewhat modified, 
were in her cheeks, the old-time red tinted the full I 
lips; but she was more mature, less of a girl and 
more of a woman; and to Dorian she was more 
beautiful than ever. 

*'Carlia," he again ventured, '*I'm glad to see 
you; but you don't seem very pleased with your 
neighbor. Why did you run from me out there?" 

''You startled me.'^ 

''Yes; I suppose I did. It was rather strange, 
this coming so suddenly on to you. I've been 
looking for you quite a while.'' 

"I don't understand why you have been looking 
for me." 

"You know why, Carlia." 

"I don't." 

"You're just talking to be talking — but here, 
this sounds like quarreling, and we don't want to 
do that so soon, do we?" 

"No, I guess not." 

"Won't you sit down." 

The girl reached for a chair, then seated her- 

"The folks are anxious about you. When can 
you go home?" 

"I'm not going home." 

"Not going home? Why not? Who are these 
people, and what are you doing here?^' 

"These are good people, and they treat me fine. 
I'm going to stay—here," 


**But I don't see why. Of course, it's none of 
my business ; but for the sake of your father and 
mother, you ought to go home." 

'*How — how are they?" 

**They are as well as can be expected. You've 
never written them, have you, nor ever told where 
you were. They do not know whether you are 
dead or alive. That isn't right." 

The girl turned her bowed head slightly, but 
did not speak, so he continued: *'The whole town 
has been terribly aroused about you. You disap- 
peared so suddenly and completely. Your father 
has done everything he could think of to find you. 
When he gave up, I took up the task, and here 
you are in the hills not so far from Greenstreet." 

Carlia's eyes swam with tears. The kitchen 
door opened, and the woman looked at Carlia and 
then at Dorian. 

*' Breakfast is ready," she announced. ''Come, 
Miss Davis, and have your friend come too." 

Dorian explained that he had already eaten. 

''Please excuse me just now," pleaded Carlia, 
to the woman. "Go eat your breakfast without 
me. Mrs. Carlston, this is Mr. Trent, a neighbor 
of ours at my home. I was foolish to be so scared 
of him. He — ^he wouldn't hurt anyone." She 
tried bravely to smile. 

Alone again, the two were ill at ease. A flood 
of memories, a confusion of thoughts and feelings 
swept over Dorian. The living Carlia in all her 
attractive beauty was before him, yet back of her 


stood the grim skeleton. Could he close his eyes 
to that? Could he let his love for her overcome 
the repulsion which would arise like a black cloud 
into his thoughts? Well, time alone would tell. 
Just now he must be kind to her, he must be 
strong and wise. Of what use is strength and ' 
wisdom if it is unfruitful at such times as 
these? Dorian arose to his feet and stood in 
the strength of his young manhood. He seemed 
to take Carlia with him, for she also stood looking 
at him with her shining eyes. 

''Well, Carlia,'' he said, ''go get your breakfast, 
and 111 finish my errand. You see, the storm 
stopped the mail carrier and me and we had to 
put up at your neighbour's last night. fhere I i 
found three children greatly disappointed in not 
having their usual Christmas tree. I promised I 
would get them one this morning, and that's what 
I was out for when I saw you. You know, Carlia, 
it's Christmas Eve this morning, if you'll allow 
that contradiction." 
• "Yes, I know." 

"I'll come back for you. And mind, you do 
not try to escape. I'll -be watching the house 
closely. Anyway," he laughed lightly, "the 
snow's too deep for you to run very far." 

"0, Dorian." 

"Yes." Sm 

He came toward her, but she with averted face, 
slipped toward the kitchen door. 

"I can't go home, I can't go with you — really, 

DOBlAis 191 

I can't," she said. "You go back home and tell 
the folks I'm all right now, won't you, please." 

"We'll talk about that after a while. I must 
get that tree now, or those kiddies will think I 
am a rank impostor." Dorian looked at his 
watch. "Why, it's getting on toward noon. So 
long, for the present." 

Dorian found and cut a fairly good tree. The 
children were at the window when he appeared, 
and great was their joy when they saw him carry 
it to the woodshed and make a stand for it, then 
bring it in to them. The mail carrier was about 
ready to continue his journey, and he asked 
Dorian if he was also ready. But Dorian had no 
reason for going on further ; he had many reasons 
for desiring to remain. And here was the Christ- 
mas tree, not dressed, nor the candy made. How 
could he disappoint these children? 

"I wonder," he said to the mother, "if it would 
be asking too much to let me stay here until to- 
morrow. I'm in no hurry, and I v^uld like to 
help the children with the tree, as I promised. 
I've been hindered some this morning; and— 
" "Stay," shouted tue children who had heard 

this. "Stay, do stay." ,. ^ ,;r 

"You are more than welcome," replied Mrs. 
Hickson; "but I fear that the children are im- 
posing on you." . 

Dorian assured her that the pleasure was his, 
and after the mail carrier had departed, be 
thought it wise to explain further. 

192 DORlAi^J 

'*A very strange thing has happened," said 
Dorian. ^*As I was going after the tree for the 
children, I met the young lady who is staying at 
Mrs. Carlston." 

*'Miss Davis." 

*'Yes; she's a neighbor of mine. We grew up 
together as boy and girl. Through some trouble, 
she left home, and — in fact, I have been searching 
for her. I am going to try to get her to go home 
to her parents. She^ — she could help us with our 
tree dressing this evening." 

**We'd like to have both our neighbors visit with 
us," said Mrs. Hickson; *^but the snow is rather 
deep for them," 

By the middle of the afternoon Dorian cleared 
a path to the neighboring house, and then went 
stamping on to the porch. Carlia opened the door 
and gave him a smiling welcome. She had dressed 
up a bit, he could see, and he was pleased with 
the thought that it was for him. Dorian delivered 
the invitation to the two women. Carlia would 
go immediately to help, and Mrs. Carlston would 
come later. Carlia was greeted by the children 
as a real addition to their company. 

**Did you bring an extra of stockings?" asked 
Mrs. Hickson of her. **An up-to-date Santa Glaus 
is going to visit us tonight, I am sure." She 
glanced toward Dorian, who was busy with the 
children and the tree. 

That was a Christmas Eve long to be remem- 


bered by all those present in that house amid soli- 
tude of snow, of mountain, and of pine forests. 
The tree, under the magic touches of Dorian and 
Carlia grew to be a thing of beauty, in the eyes 
of the children. The home-made candles and de- 
corations were pronounced to be as good as the 
''boughten ones.'' And the candy — what a 
miracle worker this sober-laughing, ruddy-haired 
young fellow was! 

Carlia could not resist the spirit of cheer. She 
smiled with the older people and laughed with the 
children. How good it was to laugh again, she 
thought. When the tree was fully ablaze, all, 
with the exception of Mr. Hickson joined hands 
and danced around it. Then they had to taste of 
the various and doubtful makings of candies, and 
ate a bread-pan of snow-white popcorn sprinkled 
with melted butter. Then Mr. Hickson told some 
stories, and his wife in a clear, sweet voice led the 
children in some Christmas songs. Oh, it was a real 
Christmas Eve, made doubly joyful by the simple 
helpfulness and kindness of all who took part. 

At the close of the evening, Dorian escorted Mrs. 
Carlston and Carlia back to their house, and the 
older woman graciously retired, leaving the parlor 
and the glowing log to the young people. 

They sat in the big armchairs facing the grate. 

'^WeVe had a real nice Christmas Eve, after 
all,'' said he. 


'*Our Christmas Eves at home are usually quiet. 



I'm the only kid there, and I don't make much 
noise. Frequently, just mother and Uncle Zed and 
I made up the company ; and then when we could 
get Uncle Zed to talking about Jesus, and explain 
who He was, and tell his story before He came to 
this earth as the Babe of Bethlehem, there was a 
real Christmas spirit present. Yes; I believe you 
were with us on one of these occasions." 

''Yes, I was." 

Dorian adjusted the log in the grate. ''Carlia, 
when shall we go home?" he asked. 

''How can I go home?" 

"A very simple matter. We ride on the stage 
to the railroad, and then — " 

"0! I do not mean that. How can I face my 
folks, and everybody?" 

"Of course, people will be inquisitive, and there 
will be a lot of speculation; but never mind that. 
Your father and mother will be mighty glad to 
get you back home, and I am sure your father 
will see to it that you — that you'll have no more 
cause to run away from home." 

"Vf hat— what?" 

"Why, he'll see that you do not have so much 
work — man's work, to do. Yes, regular down- 
right drudgery it v\^as. Why, I hardly blame you 
for running away, that is, taking a brief vaca- 
tion." He went on talking, she looking silently 
into the fire. "But now," he said finally, "you 
have had a good rest, and you are ready to go 


She sat rigidly looking at the glow in the grate. 
He kept on talking cheerfully, optimistically, as if 
he wished to prevent the gloom of night to over- 
whelm them. Then, presently ,the girl seemed to 
shake herself free from some benumbing influence, 
as she turned to him and said : 

''Dorian, why, really why have you gone to all 
this trouble to find me?" 

*'Why, we all wanted to know what had become 
of you. Your father is a changed man because 
of your disappearance, and your mother is nearly 
broken hearted.'' 

''Yes, I suppose so; but is that all?'' 

"Isn't that enough?" 


"Well, I— I—" 

"Dorian, you're neither dull nor stupid, except 
in this. Why did not someone else do this hunting 
for a lost girl? Why should it be you?" 

Dorian arose, walked to the window and looked 
out into the wintry night. He saw the shine of the 
everlasting stars in the deep blue. He sensed 
the girl's pleading eyes sinking into his soul as if 
to search him out. He glimpsed the shadowy 
specter lurking in her background. And yet, as 
he fixed his eyes on the heavens, his mind cleared, 
his purpose strengthened. As he turned, there 
was a grim smile on his face. He walked back 
to the fire-place and seated himself on the arm of 
Carlia's chair. 

"Carlia," he said, "I may be stupid — I am 


stupid — IVe always been stupid with you. I know 
it. I confess it to you. I have not always acted 
toward you as one who loves you. I don't know 
w^hy — lay it to my stupidity. But, Carlia, I do love 
you. I have always loved you. Yes, ever since 
we were children playing in the fields and by the 
creek and the ditches. I know now what that 
feeling was. I loved you then, I love you now. ' ' 

The girl arose mechanically from her chair, 
reached out as if for support to the mantle. ^^Why, 
Oh, why did you not tell me before^ — before" — she 
cried, then swayed as if to a fall. Dorian caught 
her and placed her back in the seat. He took her 
cold hands, but in a moment, she pulled them 

''Dorian, please sit down in this other chair, 
won't you?" 

Dorian did as she wanted him to do, but he 
turned the chair to face her. 

''I want you to believe me, Carlia." 

''I am trying to believe you." 

''Is it so hard as all that?" 

"What I fear is that you are doing all this 
for me out of the goodness of your heart. Listen, 
let me say what I want to say — I believe I can 

now You're the best man I know. I have 

never met anyone as good as you, no, not even 
my father— nobody. You're far above me. You 
always have been willing to sacrifice yourself for 
others ; and now— what I fear is that you are just 
doing this, saying this, out of the goodness of 

DORIAN 19'^ 

jrour heart and not because you reaUy— really love 


"Carlia, stop— don't." 

"I know you, Dorian. I've heard you and Uncle 
Zed talk, sometimes when you thought I was not 
listening. I know your high ideals of service, how 
you believe it is necessary for the higher to reach 
down to help and save the lower. Oh, I know, 
Dorian; and it is this that I think of. You cannot 
love poor me for my sake, but you are doing this 
for fear of not doing your duty. Hush— Listen! 
Not that I don't honor you for your high ideals— 
they are noble, and belong to just such as I be- 
lieve you are. Yes, I have always, even as a child, 
looked up to you as someone big and strong and 
good— Yes, I have always worshiped you, loved 
you' There, you know it, but what's the use!" 
Dorian moved his chair close to her, then said : 
"You are mistaken, of course, in placing my 
goodness so high, though I've always tried to do 
the right by everybody. That I have failed with 
you is evidence that I am not so perfect as you 
say. But now, let's forget everything else but 
the fact that we love each other. Can't we be 

happy in tMt?" , , ., i 

The roses faded from Carlia 's cheeks .though 

coaxed to stay by the firelight. 

"My dear," he continued, "we'll go home, and 
I'll try to mak# up to you my failings. I think 
I can do that, Carlia, when you become my wife. 

"I can't, Dorian, Oh, I can't be that." 


Why not Carlia?'' 

I can't marry you. I'm not — No, Dorian/' 
In time, Carlia. We will have to wait, of 
course; but some day" — he took her hands, and 
she did not seem to have power to resist — ^^sorne 
day" he said fervently, ''you are going to be mine 
for time and for eternity." 

They looked into each others faces wilhout fear. 
Then: ''Go now, Dorian" she said. "I can't stand 
any more to night. Please go." 

"Yes; I'll go. Tomorrow, the stage comes again 
this way, and we'll go with it. That's settled. 

They both arose. He still held her hands. 

"Goodnight," he repeated, and kissed her gently 
on the cheek. 


THE sudden return of Carlia Duke to her 
home created as much talk as her disap- 
pearance had done. Dorian was besieged 
with enquirers whom he smilingly told that he 
had just come across her taking a little vacation 
up in the hills. What, in the hills in the depths 
of winter? Why, yes; none but those who have 
tried it know the comfort and the real rest one 
may obtain shut out by the snow from the world, 
in the solitude of the hills. He told as little as 
possible of the details of his search, even to Car- 
lia ^s parents. Any unpleasant disclosures would 
have to come from her to them, he reasoned. Not 
being able to get Dorian talking about the case, 
the good people of Greenstreet soon exhausted their 
own knowledge of the matter, so in a short time, 
the gossip resumed its every-day trend. 

Hardly a day passed without Dorian spending 
some time with Carlia. She would not go to Sun- 
day School or to Mutual, and it was some tiue 
before he could convince her that it was a matter 
of wisdom as well as of right that she should 


attend some of the public ward meetings. Fre- 
quently, he took his book to the Duke home and 
read aloud to Carlia. This she enjoyed very much. 
Sometimes the book was a first class novel, but 
oftener it was a scientific text or a religions 
treatise. Carlia listened attentively to his discu.^*- 
sion of deep problems, and he was agreeably sur- 
prised to learn that she could readily follow him 
in the discussion of these themes; so that the long 
winter evenings spent with her either at her home 
or at his own became a source of great inspiration 
to the young man who had not lost sight of the 
mission assigned to him by the beloved Uncle Zed. 
Dorian talked freely to Carlia on how he might 
best fulfill the high destiny which seemed to lay 
before him; and Carlia entered enthusiastically 
into his plans. 

''Fine, fine,'' she would say. ''Carry it out. 
You can do it.'' 

^'With your help, Carlia." 

"I'll gladly help you all I can; but that is so 
little; what can I do?" 

"Trust me, have faith in me; and when the time 
comes, marry me." 

This was usually the end of the conversation for 
Carlia; she became silent unless he changed the 

Dorian, naturally undemonstrative, was now 
more careful than ever in his love making. The 
intimacy between them never quite returned 
to the earlier state. Complete forgetfulness 


of what had been, was, of course, impossible, either 
for Carlia or for Dorian; but he tried manfully 
not to let the "specter" come too often between 
him and the girl he loved. He frequently told her 
that he loved her, but it was done by simple word 
or act Dorian's greater knowledge gave him the 
advantage over her. He was bound by this greater 
knowledge to be the stronger, the wiser, the one 
who could keep all situations well in hand. 

One evening, when Carlia was unusually sweet 
and tempting, he asked if he might kiss her good- 
night. She set her face as if it were hard to deny 
him, but she finally said : 

"No; you must not." 

"Why not, Carlia?" 

"We're not engaged yet." 


"We are not. I have never promised to marry 

you, have I?" She smiled. 

"No; I guess not; but that's understood." 
"Don't be so sure." r 

"There are some things definitely fixed /without 

the spoken word." 

"Good night, Dorian." She was smiling still. 

"Good night, Carlia." Their hands met and 
clasped, atoning the best they could for the for- 
bidden kiss. 

One evening when the feeling of spring was in 
the air, Dorian was going to call on Carlia, when 
he heard the approach of an automobile. As it 


turned into the bystreet, leading to the Duke home, 
Dorian saw the driver to be Mr. Jack Lamont. 
Dorian kept in the road, and set his face hard. 
As the machine had to stop to prevent running ^ 
over him, Dorian turned, walked deliberately to 
the side of the car, and looking steadily into Mr. 
Lamont 's face, said: 

''I'm going to Mr. Duke's also. If I find you 
there, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life. 
Drive on." 

For a moment, the two glared at each other, 
then the automobile went on — on past the Duke 
house toward town. When Dorian arrived at his 
destination, Carlia greeted him with: 
''Dorian, what's the matter?" 
"Nothing," he laughed. 
"You're as pale as a ghost." 
"Am I? Well, I haven't seen any ghosts— Say, 
mother wants you to come to supper. She has 
something you specially like. Can you?" 

"Sure, she can," answered her mother, for she 
was glad to have Carlia out away from the work 
which she was determined to stick to closer than 
ever. Carlia was pleased to go, and kept up a 
merry chatter until she saw that Dorian was ex- 
ceptionally sober-minded. She asked him what was 
the matter with him, but he evaded. His thoughts 
were on the whom he had prevented from 
calling at her home that evening. What was his 
errand? What was in the scoundrel's mind? 
Dorian struggled to put away from him the dark 


thoughts which had arisen because of his recent 
encounter with Mr. Lamont. All the evening at 
home and during their walk back he was unusu- 
ally silent, and Carlia could only look at him with 
questioning anxiety. 

Spring, once started, came on with a rush. The 
melting snow filled the river with a muddy flood; 
the grass greened the slopes ; the bursting willows 
perfumed the air; the swamp awakened to the 
warm touch of the sun. Dorian's busy season also 


As soon as the roads were passible, Dorian drove 
up to his dry-farm. On one of. these first trips he 
fell in with a company of his neighboring dry- 
farmers, and they traveled together. While they 
were stopping for noon at a small hotel in the 
canyon, a rain storm came up, which delayed them. 
They were not impatient, however, as the moisture 
was welcome; so the farmers rested easily, letting 
their horses eat a little longer than usual. 

The conversation was such which should be ex- 
pected of Bishop's counselors, president of Elders' 
quorums, and class leaders in the Mutual, which 
these men were. On this occasion some of the 
always-present moral problems were discussed. 
Dorian was so quiet that eventually some one called 
on him for an opinion. 

"I don't think I can add anything to the dis- 
cussion," replied Dorian. "Only this, however: 
One day in Sunday school Uncle Zed painted the 
terrors of sin to us boys in such colours that I 


shall never forget it. The result in my case is 
that I have a dreadful fear of moral wrong doing. 
I am literally scared, I — " 

Dorian turned his eyes to the darkened doorway. 
Mr. Jack Lamont stood there with a cynical ex- 
pression on his face. His hat w^as tilted back on 
his head, and a half-smoked cigarette sagged from 
his lips. The genial warmth of the room seemed 
chilled by the newcomer's presence. 

''G'day, gentlemen/' said Mr. Lamont. '*Mr. 
Trent, here, is afraid, I understand.'' 

The men arose. Outside the clouds were break- 
ing. Dorian stepped forward, quite close to Jack 

''Yes, I am afraid," said Dorian, his face white 
with passion, ''but not of what you think, not of 
what you would be afraid, you dirty, low, scoun- 

Lamont raised a riding whip he had in his hand, 
but the men interferred, and they all moved out- 
side into the yard. Dorian, still tense with anger, 
permitted himself to be taken to the teams where 
they began hitching up. Dorian soon had himself 
under control, yet he was not satisfied with the 
matter ending thus. Quietly slipping back to 
where Mr. Lamont stood looking at the men pre- 
paring to drive on, he said, "I want a word with 

The other tried to evade. 

"Don't try to get away until I'm through with 
you. I want to tell you again what a contempt- 


able cur you are. No one but a damned scoundrel 
would take advantage of a girl as you did, and 
then leave her to bear her shame alone." 
'^ Do you mean Carlia — '' 
''Don't utter her name from your foul lips.'' 
''For if you do, I might say, what have I got to 
do with that ? You were her lover, were you not ? 
you were out with her in the fields many times 
until midnight, you — " 

The accusing mouth closed there, closed by the 
mighty impact of Dorian's fist. The blood spurted 
from a gashed lip, and Mr. Lamont tried to defend 
himself. Again Dorian's stinging blow fell upon 
the other's face. Lamont was lighter than Dorian, 
but he had some skill as a boxer which he tried to 
bring into service; but Dorian, mad in his desire 
to punish, with unskilled strength fought off all 
attacks. They grappled, struggled, and fell, to 
arise again and give blow for blow. It was all 
done so suddenly, and the fighting was so fierce, 
that Dorian's fellow travelers did not get to the 
scene before Jack Lamont lay prone on the ground 
from Dorian's finishing knockout blow. 

"Damn him!" said Dorian, as he shook himself 
back into a somewhat normal condition and spat 
red on the ground. ''He's got just a little ot 
what's been coming to him for a long time. Let 
him alone. He's not seriously hurt. Let's go." 


ON a Saturday afternoon in early July Dorian 
and a neighbor w^tre coming home from 
a week's absence up in the hills. They 
were on horseback, and therefore they cut across 
by way of the new road in course of construction 
between Greenstreet and the city. 

The river was high. The new bridge was not 
yet open for traffic, but horses could safely cross. 
As the two riders passed to the Greenstreet side, 
they saw near the bridge down on the rocks by the 
rushing river, an automobile, overturned and pretty 
well demolished. Evidently, someone had been 
trying to reach the bridge, had missed the road, 
and had gone over the bank, which at this point 
was quite steep. 

The two m.en stopped, dismounted, and surveyed 
the wreck. Someone was under the car, dead or 
alive, they could not tell. Dorian unslung his rope 
from his saddle, and took off his coat. ''I'll go 
down and see," he said. 

**Be careful," admonished the other, **if you 
slip into the river, you'll be swept away." 


Dorian climbed clown to where the broken 
machine lay. Pinned under it with his body half 
covered by the water was Mr. Jack Lamont. He 
was talking deliriously, calling in broken sentences 
for help. Dorian's hesitancy for an instant was 
only to determine what was the best thing to do. 

^ ' Hold on a bit longer, Mr. Lamont, ' ' said Dorian ; 
but it was doubtful whether the injured man 
understood. He glared at his rescuer with un- 
seeing eyes. Part of the automobile was already 
being moved by the force of the stream, and there 
was danger that the whole car, together with the 
injured man, would be swept down the stream. 
Dorian, while clinging to the slippery rocks, tried 
to pull the man away, but he was so firmly pinned 
under the wreck that he could not be moved. 
Dorian then shouted to his companion on the bank 
to bring the rope and come to his assistance; but 
even while it was being done^ a great rush of 
water lifted the broken car out into the stream. 
Lamont was released, but he was helpless to pre- 
vent the current from sweeping him along. 

Dorian reached for the man, but missed him and 
stepped into a deep place. He went in to his arms, 
but he soon scrambled on to a shallower point 
w^here he regained his balance. The unconscious 
Lam^ont was beginning to drift into the current 
and Dorian knew that if he was to be saved he must 
be prevented from getting into the grasp of the 
mid-stream. Dorian took desperate chances him- 

208 DOBIAI^ 

self, but his mind was clear and his nerves were 
steady as he waded out into the water. His com- 
panion shouted a warning to him from the bankjj; 
but he heeded it not. Lamont's body was moving! 
more rapidly, so Dorian plunged after it, and by 
so doing got beyond wading depths. He did no< 
mind that as he was a good swimmer, and appar^ 
ently, Mr. Lamont was too far gone to give anji 
dangerous death grip. Dorian got a good hold o! 
the man's long hair and with the free arm h( 
managed to direct them both to a stiller pool lowei 
down where by the aid of his companion, h( 
pulled Lamont out of the water and laid him odji 
the bank. He appeared to be dead, but the two| 
worked over him for some time. No other helji 
appeared, so once more they tried all the mean 
at their command to resuscitate the drowned. 

''I think he's gone," .said Dorian's companion. 

''It seems so. He's received some internal in-i 
jury. He was not drowned." 

''Who is he, I wonder." 

"His name is Jack Lamont." 

"Do you know him?" 

"I know him. Yes; let's carry him up the 
bank. We'll have to notify somebody." . 

The man was dead when he was laid on thei 
soft warm grass. Dorian covered the lifeless forai 
with his own coat. 

"I'll stay here," suggested Dorian's companion, 
"while you go and telephone the police station in 


the city. Then you go right on home and get into 
some dry clothes/' 

Dorian did as he was told. After reaching the 
nearest telephone, and delivering his message, he 
went on home and explained to his mother what 
had happened. Then he changed his clothes. 

''What a terrible thing!'' exclaimed his mother. 
And you also might have been drowned." 

''Oh, no; I was all right. I knew just what 1 
could do. But the poor fellow. I— I wish I could 
have saved him. It might have been a double 
salvation for him." 

The mother did not press him for further ex< 
planations, for she also had news to tell. As soon 
as Dorian came from his room in his dry clothes, 
she asked him if he had seen Brother Duke on 
the way. 

"No, mother; why?" 

"Well, he was here not long ago, asking for 
you. Carlia, it seems, has had a nervous break- 
down, and the father thinks you can help." 

"I'll go immediately." 

"You'll have some supper first. It will take 
me only a moment to place it on the table." 

"No, mother, thank you; after I come back; or 
perhaps I'll eat over there. Don't wait for me." 
He was out of the house, and nearly running along 
the road. 

Dorian found Carlia 's father and mother under 
great mental strain. "We're so glad you came," 
they said; "we're sure you can help her." 



''What is the matter T' 
^^We hardly know. We don't understand. This* 
afternoon — that Mr. Jack Lamont — you remember 
him — he used to come here. Well, lie hasn't been 
around for over a year, for which we were very 
thankful, until this afternoon when he came in his 
automobile. Carlia was in the garden, and she 
saw him drive up to the gate. When he alighted 
and came toward her, she seemed frightened out 
of her wits, for she ran terror stricken into the 
house. She went up to her bedroom and would 
not come down. 

''He did not see her, then, to talk to herT' 
''No; he waited a few moments only, then drove 
off again.'' 

"Where is Carlia now?" 
"Still up in her room." 
"May I go up to her?" 
"Yes; but won't you have her come down?" 
No, I'd rather go up there, if you don't mind." 
Not at all. Dorian, you seem the only help we 

He went through the living room to the stair- 
wa3^ He noticed that the bare boards of the 
stairs had been covered with a carpet, which madei 
his ascending steps quite noiseless. Everything 
was still in Carlia 's room. The door was slightly 
ajar, so he softly pushed it open. Carlia was lyings 
on her bed asleep. 

Dorian tiptoed in and stood looking about. The 


once bare, ugly room had been transformed into 
quite a pretty chamber, with carpet and curtains 
and wall-paper and some pretty furniture. The 
father had at last done a sensible thing for his 

Carlia slept on peacefully. She had not even 
washed away the tear-stains from her cheeks, and 
her nut-brown hair lay in confusion about her 
head. Poor, dear girl! If there ever was a suf- 
fering penitent, here was one. 

In a few moments, the girl stirred, then sensing 
that someone was in the room, she awoke with a 
start, and sprang to her feet. 

'^It's only Dorian,'' said he. 

**0h!" she put her hand to her head, brushing 
back her hair. 

''Dorian, is it you?" 

''Sure, in real flesh and blood and rusty-red 
hair.'' He tried to force cheerfulness into his 

"I'm so glad, so glad it's you." 

"And I'm glad that you're glad to see me." 

"Has he gone? I'm afraid of him." 
Afraid of whom, Carlia?" 
Don't you know? Of course you don't know. 

( ( 

"Sit down here, Carlia." He brought a chair; 
but she took it nearer the open window, and he 
pushed up the blind that the cool air might the 
more freely enter. The sun was nearing the 



western hills, and the evening sounds from the 
yard came to them. He drew a chair close to hers, 
and sat down by her, looking silently into the 
troubled face. 

**I'm a sight," she said, coming back to the com- 
mon, everyday cares as she tried to get her hair 
into order. - 

*'No; you're not. Never mind a few stray locks 
of hair. Never mind that tear-stained face. I 
have something to tell you." 

''You said you were afraid, afraid of Mr. Jack 
Lamont. ' ' 

''Yes," she whispered. 

"Well, you never need be afraid of him again." 
"I — I don't understand." 
"Jack Lamont is dead." 
She gave a startled cry. 
"Dorian — ^you — ?" 

"No; I have not killed him. He was and is 
in the hands of the Lord." Then he told her 
what had happened that afternoon. 

Carlia listened with staring eyes and bated 
breath. And Dorian had actually risked his life 
in an attempt to save Jack Lamont! If Dorian 
only had known! But he would never know, 
never now. She had heard of the fight between 
Dorian and Lamont, as that had been common 
gossip for a time; but Carlia had no way of con- 
necting that event with herself or her secret, as 


no one had heard what words passed between 
them that day, and Dorian had said nothing. And 
now he had tried to save the life of the man 
whom he had so thoroughly trounced. What a 
puzzle he was ! And yet what a kind, open face 
was his, as he sat there in the reddening evening 
light telling her in his simple way what he had 
done. What did he know, anyway? For it would 
be just like him to do good to those who would 
harm him; and had she not proved in her own 
case that he had been more patient and kind to 
her after her return than before. What did he 

''Shall I close the window, he asked. ''Is there 
too much draught?'' 

"No; I must have air or I shall stifle. Dorian, 
tell me, what do you know about this Mr. La- 

"Why, not much, Carlia; not much good, at 
any rate. You know I met him only a few times. 
He tried to answer her questions and at the 
same time give her as little information as possi- 

"But Dorian, why did you fight with him?" 

"He insulted me. IVe explained that to you 


"That's not all the reason. Jack Lamont could 
not insult you. I mean, you would pay no atten- 
tion to him if only yourself were involved." 

"Now, Carlia, don't you begin to philosophize 
on my reasons for giving Jack Lamont a licking 

214 DOEIAJ^ 

He's dead, and let's let him rest in as much 
peace as the Lord will allow." 
'^AU right." 

''Now, my dear, you feel able to go down and 
have some supper. Your father and mother should 
be told the news, and perhapi I can do that better 
than anybody else. I'll go with you, and, if your 
mother has something good for supper. 111 stay." 
But the girl did not respond to his light speech. 
She sat very still by the window. For a long, 
long time— ages it seemed to her, she had suffered 
in silent agony for her sin, feeling as if she. 
were being smothered by her guilty secret. She 
could not bring herself to tell it even to her 
mother. How could she tell it to anyone else, 
certainly not Dorian. And yet, as she sat there 
with him she felt as if she might confide in him. 
He would listen without aijger or reproach. He 
would forgive. He — her heart soared, but her brain 
came back with a jolt to her daily thinking again. 
No, no, he must not know, he must never know; 
for if he knew, then all would surely be over be- 
tween them, and then, she might as well die and 
be done with it ! 

''Come, Carlia." ' 

She did not even hear him. 

But Dorian must know, he must know the truth 
before he asked her again to marry him. But if 
he knew, he would never urge that again. That 
perhaps would be for the best, anyway. And yet 
she could not bear the thought of sending him 


away for good. If he deserted her, who else would 
she have? No; she must have him near her, at 
least. Clear thinking was not easy for her just 
then, but in time she managed to say : 

"Dorian, sit down Do you remember that 

evening, not so long ago, Avhen you let me 'browse', 
as you called it, among Uncle Zed's books and 

"Yes; you have done that a number of times.'" 
"But' there is one time which I shall remember. 
It was the time when I read what Uncle Zed had 
Avritten about sin and death." 

"0, I had not intended you to see that." 
"But I did, and I read carefully every word 
of it. I understood most of it, too. 'The wages 
of sin is death'.... That applies to me. I am a 
sinner. I shall die. I have already died, accord- 
ing to Uncle Zed." 

"No, Carlia, you misapply that. We are all 
sinners, and we all die in proportion to our sin- 
ning. That's true enough; but there is also the 
blessed privilege of repentance to consider. Let 
me finish the quotation: 'The wages of sin is 
death; but the gift of God is eternal life through 
Jesus Christ our Lord'; also let me add what the 
Lord said about those who truly repent ; Though 
your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as 
snow; though they be red like crimson, they shal 
be as wool'. That is a great comfort to all oX 
lis, Carlia." 


*'Yes; thank you, Dorian but — but now I 

must tell you. The Lord may forgive me, but 
you cannot/' 

''Carlia, I have long since forgiven you.'' 

''Oh, of my little foolish ways, of course; but, 
Dorian, you don't know — ■'' 

''But, Carlia, I do know. And I tell you that 
I have forgiven you.'' 

"The terrible thing about meV 

"The unfortunate thing and the great sorrow 
which has come to you, and the suffering — yes, 
Carlia, I know. 

"I can't understand your saying that." 

"But I understand." 

"Who told you?" 

'^Mrs. Whitman." 

"Have you been there?" 


' ' Dorian ! ' ' She stared past him through the cpen 
window into the western sky. The upper disk 
of the sun sank slowly behind the purple mountain. 
The flaming underlining of a cloud reflected on 
the open water of the marshland and faintly into 
the room and on to the pale face of the girl. 
Presently, she arose, swayed and held out her arms 
as if she was falling. Dorian caught her. Tears, 
long pent up, save in her own lonely hours, now 
broke as a torrent from her eyes, and her body 
shook in sobs. Gone was her reserve now, her 
holding him away, her power of resistance. She 


lay supinely in his arms, and he held her close. 
0, how good it was to cry thus! 0, what a haven 
of rest! Would the tears and sobs never cease?. . • 
The sun was down, the color faded from the sky, 
a big shadow enveloped the earth. 

Then when she became quieter, she freed her 
arms, reached up and clasped her hands behind his , 
neck, clinging to him as if she never wanted to 
leave him. Neither could speak. He stroked her 
hair, kissed her cheeks, her eyes, wiped away her 
tears, unaware of those which ran unhindered ^ 

down his own face k 

"Carlia, my darling, Carlia," he breathed.^ 
"Dorian, Oh, Dorian, how— good— yon— are ! 


IT was a day in June — nearly a year from the 
time of the ^* understanding" — a day made 
more beautiful because of its being in the 
mountains and on a Sunday afternoon. Dorian 
and Carlia lived in the midst of its rarity, seated 
as they were on the grassy hill-side overlooking 
the drjMand farms near at hand and the valley 
below, through which tumbled the brook. The wild 
odor of hill plants mingled with the pungent 
fragrance of choke-cherry blossoms. The air was 
as clear as crystal. The mountains stood about 
them in silent, solemn watchfulness, strong and 
sure as the ages. The red glowed in Carlia 's lips 
again, and the roses in her cheeks. The careworn 
look was gone from her face. Peace had come into 
her heart, peace with herself, with the man she 
loved, and with God. 

Dorian pointed out to her where the wild 
strawberries grew down in the valley, and where 
the best service berries could be found on the 
hills. lie told her how the singing creek had, 
when he was alone in the hills, echoed all his 
varied moods. 

DORlAiN 219 

Then they were silent for a time, letting the 
contentment of their love suffice. For now all 
barriers between these two were down. There 
was no thought they could not share, no joy 
neither trouble they could not meet together. 
However, they were very careful of each other; 
their present peace and content had not easily been 
reached. They had come "up through great 
tribulation," even thus far in their young lives. 
The period of their purification seemed now to 
be drawing to a close, and they were entering 
upon a season of rest for the soul. 

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall 
see God." This promise is surely not limited to 
that hoped-for future time when we shall have 
laid aside mortality, but the pure in heart see much 
of God here and now— see Him in the beauty of 
hill and dale, in cloud and blue sky, in placid 
pool and running water, in flowers and insect, 
and in the wonderful workings of the human 
heart! And so Dorian Trent and Carlia Duke, 
being of the pure in heart, saw much of God and 
His glory that afternoon. 

Then they talked again of the home folks, of 
Mildred Brown, and of Uncle Zed; and at length 
came to their own immediate affairs. 

That fall Dorian was to enter tlie University. 
The farm at Greenstreet would have to be let to 
others, but he thought he could manage the dry- 
farm, as most of the work came in vacation 


season.^ Mrs. Trent did not want to leave her 
home in the country,- but she would likely be- 
come lonesome living all by herself; so there 
would always be a room for her with Dorian and 
Carlia in the little house they would rent near 
the school. Then, after the University, there 
would be some Eastern College for a period of 
years, and after that, other work. The task 
Dorian had set before him was a big one, but it 
was a very important one, and no one seemed to 
be doing it as yet. He might fail in accomplish- 
ing what he and Uncle Zed and perhaps the Lord 
had in mind regarding him, but he would do his 
very best, anyway. 

''You'U not fail,'' the girl at his side assured 

''I hope not. But I know some men who have 
gone in for all the learning they could obtain, 
and in the process of getting the learning, they 
have lost their faith. With me, the very object 
of getting knowledge is to strengthen my faith. 
What would it profit if one gains the whole world 
of learning and loses his soul in the process. 
Knowledge is power, both for good and for ill. I 
have been thinking lately of the nature of faith, 
the forrunner of knowledge. I can realize some- 
what the meaning of the scripture which says that 
the worlds were framed and all things in them 
made by the power of faith. As Uncle Zed used 
to say — " 

DORLLN' 221 

"You always put it that way. Don't you know 
anything of your own?" 

"No; no one does. There is no such thing as 
knowledge of one's own making. Knowledge has 
always existed from the time when there has 
been a mind to conceive it. The sum of truth 
is eternal. We can only discover truth, or be 
told it by someone who has already found it. 
God has done that. He comprehends all truth, 
and therefore all power and all glory is found in 
Him It is the most natural thing in the world, 
then, that we should seek the truth from the^ foun- 
tain'head or source to us, and that is God." 

Although it was after the usual time of the 
Sunday sermon, Dorian felt free to go on. 

" 'When the Son of Man cometh, shall He tmd 
faith on the earth?' I hope to help a little to 
xnake the answer. Yes. I know of nothing which 
the world needs more than faith. Not many are 
specializing in that field. Edison is bringing forth 
some of the wonders of electricity; Burbank is 
doing marvelous things in the plant world; we 
have warriors and statesmen and philosophers and 
philanthropists and great financiers a-plenty; w« 
Lve scientists too, and some of them are helping^ 
Have you ever heard of Sir Oliver Lodge and 
Lord Kelvin?" 

No- she never had. . 

^Well"-and Dorian laughed softly to himsel 
at the apparent egotism of the proposition- I 


must be greater than either of them. I must know 
all they know, and more ; and that is possible, for 
I have the 'Key of Knowledge' which even the 
most learned scholar cannot get without obedience 
to the laws and ordinances of the gospel." 

Carlia silently worshiped. 

''Now/' he continued in a somewhat lighter 
vein, ''do you realize what you are doing when 
you say you will be my wife and put up with all 
the eccentricities of such a man as I am planning 
to be? Are you willing to be a poor man's wife, 
for I cannot get money and this knowledge I am 
after at the same time? Are you willing to go 
without the latest in dresses and shoes and hats — 
if necessary? 

"Haven't I heard you say that the larger part 
of love is in giving and not in getting?" replied 

"Yes, I believe that's true." 

"Well, then, that's my answer. Don't deny me 
the joy I can get by the little I can give." 

The sun was nearing the western mountains, the 
sharpest peak's were already throwing shadows 
across the valley. 

"Come," said Dorian. "We had better go 
down. Mother has come out of the cabin, and I 
think she is looking for us. Supper must be 

He took Carlia 's hand and helped her up. Then 

DORIAiN 223 

they ran like care-free children down the gentler 

'^Wait a minute/' cried Carlia, '^'m out of 
breath. I— I want to ask you another question.'' 

''Ask a hundred." 

''Well, in the midst of all this studying, kind 
of in between the great, serious subjects, we'll 
find time, wall we not, to read 'David Copperfield'— 

He looked into her laughing eyes, and then 

kissed her. 

''Why, yes, of course," he said. 

Then they went on again, hand in hand, down 
into the valley of sunshine and shadow. 





















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